CAUF.  LIBRARY. 


FIGHTING 

IN  FLANDERS 


BY 
E.    ALEXANDER    POWELL,   F.R.G.S. 

SPECIAL  CORRESPONDENT  OF  THE  NEW 

YORK  WORLD  WITH  THE  BELGIAN 

FORCES  IN  THE  FIELD 


PROFUSELY  ILLUSTRATED  WITH 

REPRODUCTIONS    OF    PHOTOGRAPHS 

TAKEN  AT  THE  FRONT 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


Published    by  Arrangement  with  Charles   Scribmer'a  Sons 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  FT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  December,  1914  ' 
Second  Impression,  December  18,  1914 
Third  Impression,  February  23,  1913 


TO 
MY  FRIENDS 

THE    BELGIANS 


*/  have  eaten  your  bread  and  salt, 
I  have  drunk  your  water  and  wine; 
The  deaths  ye  died  I  have  watched  beside 
And  the  lives  that  ye  led  were  mine," 


FOREWORD 

NOTHING  is  more  unwise,  on  general 
principles,  than  to  attempt  to  write 
about  a  war  before  that  war  is 
finished  and  before  history  has  given  it  the 
justice  of  perspective.  The  campaign  which 
began  with  the  flight  of  the  Belgian  Government 
from  Brussels  and  which  culminated  in  the  fall 
of  Antwerp  formed,  however,  a  separate  and 
distinct  phase  of  the  Greatest  of  Wars,  and  I 
feel  that  I  should  write  of  that  campaign  while 
its  events  are  still  sharp  and  clear  in  my 
memory  and  before  the  impressions  it  produced 
have  begun  to  fade.  I  hope  that  those  in 
search  of  a  detailed  or  technical  account  of 
the  campaign  in  Flanders  will  not  read  this 
book,  because  they  are  certain  to  be  disap- 
pointed. It  contains  nothing  about  strategy 
or  tactics  and  few  military  lessons  can  be  drawn 
from  it.  It  is  merely  the  story,  in  simple 

words,  of  what  I,  a  professional  onlooker,  who 

vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

was  accorded  rather  exceptional  facilities  for 
observation,  saw  in  Belgium  during  that  na- 
tion's hour  of  trial. 

An  American,  I  went  to  Belgium  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war  with  an  open  mind.  I 
had  few,  if  any,  prejudices.  I  knew  the  En- 
glish, the  French,  the  Belgians,  the  Germans 
equally  well.  I  had  friends  in  all  four  countries 
and  many  happy  recollections  of  days  I  had 
spent  in  each.  When  I  left  Antwerp  after  the 
German  occupation  I  was  as  pro-Belgian  as 
though  I  had  been  born  under  the  red-black- 
and-yellow  banner.  I  had  seen  a  country, 
one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  peaceable  in 
Europe,  invaded  by  a  ruthless  and  brutal 
soldiery;  I  had  seen  its  towns  and  cities 
blackened  by  fire  and  broken  by  shell;  I  had 
seen  its  churches  and  its  historic  monuments 
destroyed;  I  had  seen  its  highways  crowded 
with  hunted,  homeless  fugitives;  I  had  seen 
its  fertile  fields  strewn  with  the  corpses  of  what 
had  once  been  the  manhood  of  the  nation; 
I  had  seen  its  women  left  husbandless  and  its 
children  left  fatherless;  I  had  seen  what  was 
once  a  Garden  of  the  Lord  turned  into  a  land 
of  desolation;  and  I  had  seen  its  people — a 


FOREWORD  ix 

people  whom  I,  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
had  always  thought  of  as  pleasure-loving,  in- 
efficient, easy-going — I  had  seen  this  people,  I 
say,  aroused,  resourceful,  unafraid,  and  right- 
ing, righting,  fighting.  Do  you  wonder  that 
they  captured  my  imagination,  that  they  won 
my  admiration  ?  I  am  pro-Belgian;  I  admit 
it  frankly.  I  should  be  ashamed  to  be  any- 
thing else. 

E.  ALEXANDER  POWELL. 

LONDON,  November  I,  1914. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD  vii 

CHAPTER 

I.  THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS  i 

II.  THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  27 

III.  THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR  51 

IV.  UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE  76 
V.  WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS  104 

VI.  ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE  132 

VII.  THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH  170 

VIII.  THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP  199 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

General  von  Boehn,  commanding  the  Ninth  German 

Army,  and  Mr.  Powell Frontispiece 

FACING  PACK 

Mr.  Powell  (at  right)  and  his  photographer,  Donald 

C.  Thompson  .....* 16 

Mr.  Joseph  Medill  Patterson,  editor  of  the  Chicago 
Tribune,  and  his  cinematograph  operator,  Mr. 
Edwin  Weigle,  taking  "movie's"  at  the  battle  of 
Waelhem 17 

Antwerp  was  encircled  by  acres  upon  acres  of  barbed- 
wire  entanglements 30 

In  the  wake  of  the  Uhlans.  A  Belgian  village  in 

flames 32 

One  of  the  bombs  dropped  during  the  Zeppelin  raid 

on  Antwerp  exploded  in  the  ward  of  a  hospital  .  56 

The  effect  of  one  of  the  bombs  dropped  from  a  Zep- 
pelin on  Antwerp 57 

The  King  of  the  Belgians  (on  the  right)  consulting 
with  the  Chief  of  Staff  on  the  firing-line  near 
Lierre 64 

A  thirteen-year-old  Boy  Scout 65 

Five  thousand  women  waiting  for  bread  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  at  Malines  ....  80 

A  seventeen-year-old  Belgian  girl  whose  father, 
mother,  brothers,  and  sister  had  been  killed,  and 
whose  home  had  been  destroyed 81 

Mr.  Powell  (in  tonneau  of  car)  amid  the  ruins  of 

Aerschot 88 

At  Termonde,  which  the  Germans  destroyed  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  inhabitants  had  evacuated  the 
city  before  their  arrival 89 

In  comparison  to  its  size,  the  Germans  wrought  more 
widespread  destruction  in  Louvain  than  did  the 
earthquake  and  fire  combined  in  San  Francisco  .  96 

xiii 


Group      .     .      97 


xiv  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING    PAGE 

The  words,   "Giite  leute.     Nicht  zu 

pliindern"     ("Good    people.      Do 

not  plunder"),  were  scrawled  on 

the  door  of  this  house  in  Lou- 
vain — 
— but  there  were  no  words  on   this 

house 
The  Belgian  armored  motor-car,  driven  by  William 

van  Calck  of  Pittsburg 112 

Mr.  Powell  and  the  two  German  soldiers  whom  he 

rescued  from  the  mob  in  Ghent  greeted  by  Amer- 
ican refugees  in  Sotteghem 113 

"Field  kitchens  rumbled  down  the  lines,  serving  hot 

soup  and  coffee  to  the  men" 120 

Mr.  Powell  as  the  guest  of  General  von  Boehn  and 

the  General  Staff  of  the  Ninth  German  Army      .     121 

On  the  road  to  Paris 128 

Steel  bridge  at  Termonde  dynamited"} 

by  the  Belgians I 

Another    bridge    at    Termonde    de-  (  Uroup       '     '     l^ 
stroyed  by  shell-fire  j 

Belgian  artillery  in  action  at  Lierre 144 

On  the  Belgian  battle-line 145 

The  armored  train  in  action  near  Boom      ....     184 

The  last  stand 185 

Food  for  powder;  a  German  killed  at  the  battle  of 

Alost 192 

The  retreat  of  the  Belgian  army  from  Antwerp  .     .     193 

The  bombardment  of  Antwerp 208 

How  the  despatches  describing  the  fall  of  Antwerp 

came  through 20? 

The  retreat     from    Antwerp.      The  \ 

Belgian    army    passing    through  I 

Lokoren V  Group       .     .     22 

The  rear-guard     of     the     retreating  I 

Antwerp  garrison     .     .     .     .      j 
As  the  result  of  fires  which  owed  their  origin  to  the 

bombardment,  flames  destroyed  one  entire  side  of 

the  Marche  aux  Souliers  .  .     .     225 


FIGHTING 
IN    FLANDERS 


I 

THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS 

WAR  correspondents  regard  war  very 
much  as  a  doctor  regards  sickness. 
I  don't  suppose  that  a  doctor 
is  actually  glad  that  people  are  sick,  but  so 
long  as  sickness  exists  in  the  world  he  feels 
that  he  might  as  well  get  the  benefit  of  it. 
It  is  the  same  with  war  correspondents. 
They  do  not  wish  any  one  to  be  killed  on  their 
account,  but  so  long  as  men  are  going  to  be 
killed  anyway,  they  want  to  be  on  hand  to  wit- 
ness the  killing  and,  through  the  newspapers, 
to  tell  the  world  about  it.  The  moment  that 
the  war  "broke,"  therefore,  a  veritable  army 
of  British  and  American  correspondents 
descended  upon  the  Continent.  Some  of 
them  were  men  of  experience  and  discretion 
,who  had  seen  many  wars  and  had  a  right  to 
wear  on  their  jackets  more  campaign  ribbons 
than  most  generals.  These  men  took  the 
war  seriously.  They  were  there  to  get  the 
news  and,  at  no  matter  what  expenditure  of 
effort  and  money,  to  get  that  news  to  the  end 


2  FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

of  a  telegraph-wire  so  that  the  people  in 
England  and  America  might  read  it  over  their 
coffee-cups  the  next  morning.  These  men  had 
unlimited  funds  at  their  disposal;  they  had 
the  united  influence  of  thousands  of  news- 
papers and  of  millions  of  newspaper  readers 
solidly  behind  them;  and  they  carried  in  their 
pockets  letters  of  introduction  from  editors 
and  ex-presidents  and  ambassadors  and  prime 
ministers. 

Then  there  was  an  army  corps  of  special 
writers,  many  of  them  with  well-known 
names,  sent  out  by  various  newspapers  and 
magazines  to  write  "mail  stuff,"  as  des- 
patches which  are  sent  by  mail  instead  of 
telegraph  are  termed,  and  "human  interest" 
stories.  Their  qualifications  for  reporting  the 
greatest  war  in  history  consisted,  for  the  most 
part,  in  having  successfully  "covered"  labor 
troubles  and  murder  trials  and  coronations  and 
presidential  conventions,  and,  in  a  few  cases, 
Central  American  revolutions.  Most  of  the 
stories  which  they  sent  home  were  written 
in  comfortable  hotel  rooms  in  London  or 
Paris  or  Rotterdam  or  Ostend.  One  of  these 
correspondents,  however,  was  not  content  with 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS       3 

a  hotel-window  view-point.  He  wanted  to 
see  some  German  soldiers — preferably  Uhlans. 
So  he  obtained  a  letter  of  introduction  to  some 
people  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  Courtrai, 
on  the  Franco-Belgian  frontier.  He  made  his 
way  there  with  considerable  difficulty  and 
received  a  cordial  welcome.  The  very  first 
night  that  he  was  there  a  squadron  of  Uhlans 
galloped  into  the  town,  there  was  a  slight 
skirmish,  and  they  galloped  out  again.  The 
correspondent,  who  was  a  sound  sleeper,  did 
not  wake  up  until  it  was  all  over.  Then  he 
learned  that  the  Uhlans  had  ridden  under  his 
very  window. 

Crossing  on  the  same  steamer  with  me 
from  New  York  was  a  well-known  novelist  who 
in  his  spare  time  edits  a  Chicago  newspaper. 
He  was  provided  with  a  sheaf  of  introductions 
from  exalted  personages  and  a  bag  contain- 
ing five  thousand  dollars  in  gold  coin.  It  was 
so  heavy  that  he  had  brought  a  man  along 
to  help  him  carry  it,  and  at  night  they  took 
turns  in  sitting  up  and  guarding  it.  He 
confided  to  me  that  he  had  spent  most  of  his 
life  in  trying  to  see  wars,  but  though  on  four 
occasions  he  had  travelled  many  thousands  of 


4  FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

miles  to  countries  where  wars  were  in  progress, 
each  time  he  had  arrived  just  after  the  last 
shot  was  fired.  He  assured  me  very  earnestly 
that  he  would  go  back  to  Michigan  Boulevard 
quite  contentedly  if  he  could  see  just  one 
battle.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  his  perseverance 
was  finally  rewarded  and  that  he  saw  his  battle. 
He  never  told  me  just  how  much  of  the  five 
thousand  dollars  he  took  back  to  Chicago  with 
him,  but  from  some  remarks  he  let  drop  I 
gathered  that  he  had  found  battle  hunting  an 
expensive  pastime. 

One  of  the  great  London  dailies  was  repre- 
sented in  Belgium  by  a  young  and  slender  and 
very  beautiful  English  girl  whose  name,  as  a 
novelist  and  playwright,  is  known  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  I  met  her  in  the 
American  Consulate  at  Ghent,  where  she  was 
pleading  with  Vice-Consul  Van  Hee  to  assist 
her  in  getting  through  the  German  lines 
to  Brussels.  She  had  heard  a  rumor  that 
Brussels  was  shortly  going  to  be  burned  or 
sacked  or  something  of  the  sort,  and  she  wanted 
to  be  on  hand  for  the  burning  and  sacking. 
She  had  arrived  in  Belgium  wearing  a  London 
tailor's  idea  of  what  constituted  a  suitable 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS       5 

costume  for  a  war  correspondent — perhaps  I 
should  say  war  correspondentess.  Her  luggage 
was  a  model  of  compactness:  it  consisted  of  a 
sleeping-bag,  a  note-book,  half  a  dozen  pencils 
— and  a  powder-puff.  She  explained  that  she 
brought  the  sleeping-bag  because  she  under- 
stood that  war  correspondents  always  slept  in 
the  field.  As  most  of  the  fields  in  that  part 
of  Flanders  were  just  then  under  several  inches 
of  water  as  a  result  of  the  autumn  rains,  a 
folding  canoe  would  have  been  more  useful. 
She  was  as  insistent  on  being  taken  to  see  a 
battle  as  a  child  is  on  being  taken  to  the  cir- 
cus. Eventually  her  pleadings  got  the  better 
of  my  judgment  and  I  took  her  out  in  the  car 
towards  Alost  to  see,  from  a  safe  distance,  what 
promised  to  be  a  small  cavalry  engagement. 
But  the  Belgian  cavalry  unexpectedly  ran  into 
a  heavy  force  of  Germans,  and  before  we 
realized  what  was  happening  we  were  in  a  very 
warm  corner  indeed.  Bullets  were  kicking 
up  little  spurts  of  dust  about  us;  bullets  were 
tang-tanging  through  the  trees  and  clipping  off 
twigs,  which  fell  down  upon  our  heads;  the 
rat-tat-tat  of  the  German  musketry  was 
answered  by  the  angry  snarl  of  the  Belgian 


6  FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

machine  guns;  in  a  field  near  by  the  bodies 
of  two  recently  killed  Cuirassiers  lay  sprawled 
grotesquely.  The  Belgian  troopers  were 
stretched  flat  upon  the  ground,  a  veteran 
English  correspondent  was  giving  a  remarkable 
imitation  of  the  bark  on  a  tree,  and  my  driver, 
my  photographer,  and  I  were  peering  cautiously 
from  behind  the  corner  of  a  brick  farmhouse. 
I  supposed  that  Miss  War  Correspondent  was 
there  too,  but  when  I  turned  to  speak  to  her 
she  was  gone.  She  was  standing  beside  the 
car,  which  we  had  left  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  because  the  bullets  were  flying  too  thickly 
to  turn  it  around,  dabbing  at  her  nose  with  a 
powder-puff  which  she  had  left  in  the  tonneau 
and  then  critically  examining  the  effect  in  a 
pocket  mirror. 

"For  the  love  of  God!"  said  I,  running  out 
and  dragging  her  back  to  shelter,  "don't  you 
know  that  you'll  be  killed  if  you  stay  out 
here?" 

"Will  I?"  said  she  sweetly.  "Well,  you 
surely  don't  expect  me  to  be  killed  with  my 
nose  unpowdered,  do  you?" 

That  evening  I  asked  her  for  her  impressions 
of  her  first  battle. 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS       7 

"Well,"  she  answered,  after  a  meditative 
pause,  "it  certainly  was  very  chic." 

The  third  and  largest  division  of  this  jour- 
nalistic army  consisted  of  free-lances  who  went 
to  the  Continent  at  their  own  expense  on  the 
chance  of  "stumbling  into  something."  About 
the  only  thing  that  any  of  them  stumbled  into 
was  trouble.  Some  of  them  bore  the  most 
extraordinary  credentials  ever  carried  by  a 
correspondent;  some  of  them  had  no  creden- 
tials at  all.  One  gentleman,  who  was  halted 
while  endeavoring  to  reach  the  firing-line  in 
a  decrepit  cab,  informed  the  officer  before 
whom  he  was  taken  that  he  represented  the 
Ladies'  Home  Journal  of  Philadelphia.  Another 
displayed  a  letter  from  the  editor  of  a  well- 
known  magazine,  saying  that  he  "would  be 
pleased  to  consider  any  articles  which  you  care 
to  submit."  A  third,  upon  being  questioned, 
said  naively  that  he  represented  his  literary 
agent.  Then — I  almost  forgot  him — there  was 
a  Methodist  clergyman  from  Boston  who  ex- 
plained to  the  Provost  Marshal  that  he  was 
gathering  material  for  a  series  of  sermons  on 
the  horrors  of  war.  Add  to  this  army  of 
writers  another  army  of  photographers  and 


8  FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

war  artists  and  cinematograph  operators  and 
you  will  have  some  idea  of  the  problem  with 
which  the  military  authorities  of  the  warring 
nations  were  confronted.  It  finally  got  down 
to  the  question  of  which  should  be  permitted 
to  remain  in  the  field — the  war  correspondents 
or  the  soldiers.  There  wasn't  room  for  them 
both.  It  was  decided  to  retain  the  soldiers. 

The  general  staff's  of  the  various  armies 
handled  the  war-correspondent  problem  in 
different  ways.  The  British  War  Office  at 
first  announced  that  under  no  considerations 
would  any  correspondents  be  permitted  in  the 
areas  where  British  troops  were  operating,  but 
such  a  howl  went  up  from  Press  and  public 
alike  that  this  order  was  modified  and  it  was 
announced  that  a  limited  number  of  correspon- 
dents, representing  the  great  newspaper  syndi- 
cates and  press  associations,  would,  after 
fulfilling  certain  rigorous  requirements,  be 
permitted  to  accompany  his  Majesty's  forces 
in  the  field.  These  fortunate  few  having  been 
chosen  after  much  heartburning,  they  pro- 
ceeded to  provide  themselves  with  the  pre- 
scribed uniforms  and  field  kits,  and  some  of 
them  even  purchased  horses.  After  the  war 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS       9 

had  been  in  progress  for  three  months  they 
were  still  in  London.  The  French  General 
Staff  likewise  announced  that  no  correspon- 
dents would  be  permitted  with  the  armies, 
and  when  any  were  caught  they  were  uncere- 
moniously shipped  to  the  nearest  port,  between 
two  unsympathetic  gendarmes,  with  a  warning 
that  they  would  be  shot  if  they  were  caught 
again.  The  Belgian  General  Staff  made  no 
announcement  at  all.  The  police  merely  told 
those  correspondents  who  succeeded  in  getting 
into  the  fortified  position  of  Antwerp  that 
their  room  was  preferable  to  their  company 
and  informed  them  at  what  hour  the  next 
train  for  the  Dutch  frontier  was  leaving.  Now 
the  correspondents  knew  perfectly  well  that 
neither  the  British  nor  the  French  nor  the 
Belgians  would  actually  shoot  them,  if  for  no 
other  reason  than  the  unfavorable  impression 
which  would  be  produced  by  such  a  proceeding; 
but  they  did  know  that  if  they  tried  the  patience 
of  the  military  authorities  too  far  they  would 
spend  the  rest  of  the  war  in  a  military  prison. 
So,  as  an  imprisoned  correspondent  is  as 
valueless  to  the  newspaper  which  employs  him 
as  a  prisoner  of  war  is  to  the  nation  whose 


io         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

uniform  he  wears,  they  compromised  by  picking 
up  such  information  as  they  could  along  the 
edge  of  things.  Which  accounts  for  most  of 
the  despatches  being  dated  from  Ostend  or 
Ghent  or  Dunkirk  or  Boulogne  or  from  "the 
back  of  the  front,"  as  one  correspondent  inge- 
niously put  it.  As  for  the  Germans,  they  said 
bluntly  that  any  correspondents  found  within 
their  lines  would  be  treated  as  spies — which 
meant  being  blindfolded  and  placed  between 
a  stone  wall  and  a  firing-party.  And  every 
correspondent  knew  that  they  would  do  exactly 
what  they  said.  They  have  no  proper  respect 
for  the  Press,  these  Germans. 

That  I  was  officially  recognized  by  the 
Belgian  Government  and  given  a  laissez-passer 
by  the  military  Governor  of  Antwerp  permit- 
ting me  to  pass  at  will  through  both  the  outer 
and  inner  lines  of  fortifications,  that  a  motor- 
car and  a  military  driver  were  placed  at  my 
disposal,  and  that  throughout  the  campaign  in 
Flanders  I  was  permitted  to  accompany  the 
Belgian  forces  in  the  field,  was  not  due  to 
any  peculiar  merits  or  qualifications  of  my 
own,  or  even  to  the  influence  exerted  by  the 
powerful  paper  which  I  represented,  but  to  a 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS     n 

series  of  unusual  and  fortunate  circumstances 
which  there  is  no  need  to  detail  here.  There 
were  many  correspondents  who  merited  from 
sheer  hard  work  what  I  received  as  a  result 
of  extraordinary  good  fortune. 

The  civilians  who  were  wandering,  foot- 
loose and  free,  about  the  theatre  of  operations 
were  by  no  means  confined  to  the  representa- 
tives of  the  Press;  there  was  an  amazing 
number  of  young  Englishmen  and  Americans 
who  described  themselves  as  "attaches"  and 
"consular  couriers"  and  "diplomatic  mes- 
sengers," and  who  intimated  that  they  were 
engaged  in  all  sorts  of  dangerous  and  important 
missions.  Many  of  these  were  adventurous 
young  men  of  means  who  had  "come  over  to 
see  the  fun"  and  who  had  induced  the  Amer- 
ican diplomatic  representatives  in  London  and 
The  Hague  to  give  them  despatches  of  more  or 
less  importance — usually  less  than  more — to 
carry  through  to  Antwerp  and  Brussels.  In 
at  least  one  instance  the  official  envelopes  with 
the  big  red  seals  which  they  so  ostentatiously 
displayed  contained  nothing  but  sheets  of 
blank  paper.  Their  sole  motive  was  in  nearly 
all  cases  curiosity.  They  had  no  more  business 


12         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

wandering  about  the  war  zone  than  they  would 
have  had  wandering  about  a  hospital  where 
men  were  dying.  Belgium  was  being  slowly 
strangled;  her  villages  had  been  burned,  her 
fields  laid  waste,  her  capital  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  enemy,  her  people  were  battling  for 
their  national  existence;  yet  these  young  men 
came  in  and  demanded  first-row  seats,  pre- 
cisely as  though  the  war  was  a  spectacle  which 
was  being  staged  for  their  special  benefit.  One 
youth,  who  in  his  busy  moments  practised 
law  in  Boston,  though  quite  frankly  admitting 
that  he  was  only  actuated  by  curiosity,  was 
exceedingly  angry  with  me  because  I  declined 
to  take  him  to  the  firing-line.  He  seemed  to 
regard  the  desperate  battle  which  was  then  in 
progress  for  the  possession  of  Antwerp  very 
much  as  though  it  was  a  football  game  in  the 
Harvard  stadium;  he  seemed  to  think  that 
he  had  a  right  to  see  it.  He  said  that  he  had 
come  all  the  way  from  Boston  to  see  a  battle, 
and  when  I  remained  firm  in  my  refusal  to 
take  him  to  the  front  he  intimated  quite 
plainly  that  I  was  no  gentleman  and  that 
nothing  would  give  him  greater  pleasure  than  to 
have  a  shell  explode  in  my  immediate  vicinity. 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS     13 

For  all  its  grimness,  the  war  was  productive 
of  more  than  one  amusing  episode.  I  re- 
member a  mysterious  stranger  who  called  one 
morning  on  the  American  Consul  at  Ostend 
to  ask  for  assistance  in  getting  through  to 
Brussels.  When  the  Consul  asked  him  to  be 
seated  he  bowed  stiffly  and  declined,  and  when 
a  seat  was  again  urged  upon  him  he  explained, 
in  a  hoarse  whisper,  that  sewn  in  his  trousers 
were  ten  thousand  dollars  in  bank-notes  which 
he  was  taking  through  to  Brussels  for  the  relief 
of  stranded  English  and  Americans — hence  he 
couldn't  very  well  sit  down. 

Of  all  the  horde  of  adventurous  characters 
who  were  drawn  to  the  Continent  on  the  out- 
break of  war  as  iron  filings  are  attracted  by  a 
magnet,  I  doubt  if  there  was  a  more  picturesque 
figure  than  a  little  photographer  from  Kansas 
named  Donald  Thompson.  I  met  him  first 
while  paying  a  flying  visit  to  Ostend.  He 
blew  into  the  Consulate  there  wearing  an 
American  army  shirt,  a  pair  of  British  officer's 
riding-breeches,  French  puttees,  and  a  High- 
lander's forage-cap,  and  carrying  a  camera 
the  size  of  a  parlor  phonograph.  No  one 
but  an  American  could  have  accomplished 


i4         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

what  he  had,  and  no  American  but  one  from 
Kansas.  He  had  not  only  seen  war,  all  military 
prohibitions  to  the  contrary,  but  he  had  actu- 
ally photographed  it. 

Thompson  is  a  little  man,  built  like  Harry 
Lauder;  hard  as  nails,  tough  as  raw-hide,  his 
skin  tanned  to  the  color  of  a  well-smoked 
meerschaum,  and  his  face  perpetually  wreathed 
in  what  he  called  his  "sunflower  smile."  He 
affects  riding-breeches  and  leather  leggings  and 
looks,  physically  as  well  as  sartorially,  as  though 
he  had  been  born  on  horseback.  He  has  more 
chilled-steel  nerve  than  any  man  I  know,  and 
before  he  had  been  in  Belgium  a  month  his 
name  became  a  synonym  throughout  the  army 
for  coolness  and  daring.  He  reached  Europe 
on  a  tramp  steamer  with  an  overcoat,  a  tooth- 
brush, two  clean  handkerchiefs,  and  three  large 
cameras.  He  expected  to  have  some  of  them 
confiscated  or  broken,  he  explained,  so  he 
brought  along  three  as  a  measure  of  precaution. 
His  cameras  were  the  largest  size  made.  "By 
using  a  big  camera  no  one  can  possibly  accuse 
me  of  being  a  spy,"  he  explained  ingenuously. 
His  papers  consisted  of  an  American  passport, 
a  certificate  of  membership  in  the  Benevolent 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS      15 

and  Protective  Order  of  Elks,  and  a  letter  from 
Colonel  Sam  Hughes,  Canadian  Minister  of 
Militia,  authorizing  him  to  take  pictures  of 
Canadian  troops  wherever  found. 

Thompson  made  nine  attempts  to  get  from 
Paris  to  the  front.  He  was  arrested  eight 
times  and  spent  eight  nights  in  guard-houses. 
Each  time  he  was  taken  before  a  military 
tribunal.  Utterly  ignoring  the  subordinates, 
he  would  insist  on  seeing  the  officer  in  com- 
mand. He  would  grasp  the  astonished  French- 
man by  the  hand  and  inquire  solicitously  after 
his  health  and  that  of  his  family. 

"How  many  languages  do  you  speak?"  I 
asked  him. 

"Three,"  said  he,  "English,  American, 
and  Yankee." 

On  one  occasion  he  commandeered  a  motor- 
cycle standing  outside  a  cafe  and  rode  it  until 
the  petrol  ran  out,  whereupon  he  abandoned 
it  by  the  roadside  and  pushed  on  afoot.  On 
another  occasion  he  explained  to  the  French 
officer  who  arrested  him  that  he  was  endeavor- 
ing to  rescue  his  wife  and  children,  who  were 
in  the  hands  of  the  Germans  somewhere  on 
the  Belgian  frontier.  The  officer  was  so 


i6 

affected  by  the  pathos  of  the  story  that  he 
gave  Thompson  a  lift  in  his  car.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  Thompson's  wife  and  family  were  quite 
safe  in  Topeka,  Kansas.  Whenever  he  was 
stopped  by  patrols  he  would  display  his  letter 
from  the  Minister  of  Militia  and  explain  that 
he  was  trying  to  overtake  the  Canadian  troops. 
"Vive  le  Canada!"  the  French  would  shout 
enthusiastically.  "Hurrah  for  our  brave  allies, 
les  Canadiens !  They  are  doubtless  with  the 
British  at  the  front" — and  permit  him  to 
proceed.  Thompson  did  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  inform  them  that  the  nearest  Canadian 
troops  were  still  at  Quebec. 

When  within  sound  of  the  German  guns 
he  was  arrested  for  the  eighth  time  and  sent 
to  Amiens  escorted  by  two  gendarmes,  who 
were  ordered  to  see  him  aboard  the  first  train 
for  Boulogne.  They  evidently  considered  that 
they  had  followed  instructions  when  they  saw 
him  buy  a  through  ticket  for  London.  Shortly 
after  midnight  a  train  loaded  with  wounded 
pulled  into  the  station.  Assisted  by  some 
British  soldiers,  Thompson  scrambled  to  the 
top  of  a  train  standing  at  the  next  platform 
and  made  a  flashlight  picture.  A  wild  panic 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS     17 

ensued  in  the  crowded  station.  It  was  thought 
that  a  German  bomb  had  exploded.  Thomp- 
son was  pulled  down  by  the  police  and  would 
have  been  roughly  handled  had  it  not  been 
for  the  interference  of  his  British  friends,  who 
said  that  he  belonged  to  their  regiment. 
Shortly  afterwards  a  train  loaded  with  artillery 
which  was  being  rushed  to  the  front  came  in. 
Thompson,  once  more  aided  and  abetted  by 
the  British  Tommies,  slipped  under  the  tar- 
paulin covering  a  field-gun  and  promptly  fell 
asleep.  When  he  awoke  the  next  morning 
he  was  at  Mons.  A  regiment  of  Highlanders 
was  passing.  He  exchanged  a  cake  of  choco- 
late for  a  fatigue-cap  and  fell  in  with  them. 
After  marching  for  two  hours  the  regiment 
was  ordered  into  the  trenches.  Thompson 
went  into  the  trenches  too.  All  through  that 
terrible  day  Thompson  plied  his  trade  as  the 
soldiers  plied  theirs.  They  used  their  rifles 
and  he  used  his  camera.  Men  were  shot  dead 
on  either  side  of  him.  A  storm  of  shrapnel 
shrieked  and  howled  overhead.  He  said  that 
the  fire  of  the  German  artillery  was  amazingly 
accurate  and  rapid.  They  would  concentrate 
their  entire  Ere  on  a  single  regiment  or  battery 


i8         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

and  when  that  regiment  or  battery  was  out  of 
action  they  would  turn  to  another  and  do  the 
same  thing  over  again.  When  the  British 
fell  back  before  the  German  onset  Thompson 
remained  in  the  trenches  long  enough  to  get 
pictures  of  the  charging  Germans.  Then  he 
ran  for  his  life. 

That  night  he  bivouacked  with  a  French 
line  regiment,  the  men  giving  him  food  and  a 
blanket.  The  next  morning  he  set  out  for. 
Amiens  en  route  for  England.  As  the  train 
for  Boulogne,  packed  to  the  doors  with  refugees, ' 
was  pulling  out  of  the  Amiens  station,  he 
noticed  a  first-class  compartment  marked 
"Reserved,"  the  only  occupant  being  a  smartly 
gowned  young  woman.  Thompson  said  that 
she  was  very  good-looking.  The  train  was 
moving,  but  Thompson  took  a  running  jump 
and  dived  head  foremost  through  the  window,  • 
landing  in  the  lady's  lap.  She  was  considerably 
startled  until  he  said  that  he  was  an  American. 
That  seemed  to  explain  everything.  The 
young  woman  proved  to  be  a  Russian  countess 
who  had  been  living  in  Paris  and  who  was 
returning,  via  England,  to  Petrograd.  The 
French  Government  had  placed  a  compart-; 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS     19 

ment  at  her  disposal,  but  in  the  jam  at  the 
Paris  station  she  had  become  separated  from 
her  maid,  who  had  the  bag  containing  her 
money.  Thompson  recounted  his  adventures 
at  Mons  and  asked  her  if  she  would 
smuggle  his  films  into  England  concealed  on 
her  person,  as  he  knew  from  previous  experi- 
ence that  he  would  be  stopped  and  searched 
by  Scotland  Yard  detectives  when  the  train 
reached  Boulogne  and  that,  in  all  probability, 
the  films  would  be  confiscated  or  else  held  up 
so  long  that  they  would  be  valueless.  The 
countess  finally  consented,  but  suggested, 
in  return  for  the  danger  she  was  incurring, 
that  Thompson  lend  her  a  thousand  francs, 
which  she  would  return  as  soon  as  she  reached 
London.  As  he  had  with  him  only  two 
hundred  and  fifty  francs,  he  paid  her  the 
balance  in  United  Cigar  Stores  coupons,  some 
of  which  he  chanced  to  have  in  his  pocket-book, 
and  which,  he  explained,  was  American  war 
currency.  He  told  me  that  he  gave  her  almost 
enough  to  get  a  brier  pipe.  At  Boulogne  he 
was  arrested,  as  he  had  foreseen,  was  stripped, 
searched,  and  his  camera  opened,  but  as  nothing 
found  he  was  permitted  to  continue  to 


20         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

London,  where  he  went  to  the  countess's  hotel 
and  received  his  films — and,  I  might  add,  his 
money  and  cigar  coupons.  Two  hours  later, 
having  posted  his  films  to  America,  he  was  on 
his  way  to  Belgium. 

Landing  at  Ostend,  he  managed  to  get  by 
train  as  far  as  Malines.  He  then  started  to 
walk  the  twenty-odd  miles  into  Brussels, 
carrying  his  huge  camera,  his  overcoat,  field- 
glasses,  and  three  hundred  films.  When  ten 
miles  down  the  highway  a  patrol  of  Uhlans 
suddenly  spurred  out  from  behind  a  hedge 
and  covered  him  with  their  pistols.  Thompson 
promptly  pulled  a  little  silk  American  flag  out 
of  his  pocket  and  shouted  "Hoch  der  Kaiser!" 
and  "Auf  wiedersehn"  which  constituted  his 
entire  stock  of  German.  Upon  being  examined 
by  the  officer  in  command  of  the  German 
outpost,  he  explained  that  his  Canadian  creden- 
tials were  merely  a  blind  to  get  through  the 
lines  of  the  Allies  and  that  he  really  represented 
a  syndicate  of  German  newspapers  in  America, 
whereupon  he  was  released  with  apologies  and 
given  a  seat  in  an  ambulance  which  was  going 
into  Brussels.  As  his  funds  were  by  this  time 
running  low,  he  started  out  to  look  for  inexpen- 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS      21 

sive  lodgings.  As  he  remarked  to  me,  "I 
thought  we  had  some  pretty  big  house-agents 
out  in  Kansas,  but  this  'Mr.  A.  Louer'  has 
them  beaten  a  mile.  Why,  that  fellow  has 
his  card  on  every  house  that's  for  rent  in 
Brussels!" 

The  next  morning,  while  chatting  with  a 
pretty  English  girl  in  front  of  a  cafe,  a  German 
officer  who  was  passing  ordered  his  arrest  as 
a  spy.  "All  right,"  said  Thompson,  "I'm 
used  to  being  arrested,  but  would  you  mind 
waiting  just  a  minute  until  I  get  your  picture  ?" 
The  German,  who  had  no  sense  of  humor, 
promptly  smashed  the  camera  with  his  sword. 
Despite  Thompson's  protestations  that  he  was 
an  inoffensive  American,  the  Germans  destroyed 
all  his  films  and  ordered  him  to  be  out  of  the 
city  before  six  that  evening.  He  walked  the 
thirty  miles  to  Ghent  and  there  caught  a  train 
for  Ostend  to  get  one  of  his  reserve  cameras, 
which  he  had  cached  there.  When  I  met 
him  in  Ostend  he  said  that  he  had  been  there 
overnight,  that  he  was  tired  of  a  quiet  life  and 
was  looking  for  action,  so  I  took  him  back  with 
me  to  Antwerp.  The  Belgians  had  made  an 
inflexible  rule  that  no  photographers  would 


22          FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

be  permitted  with  the  army,  but  before 
Thompson  had  been  in  Antwerp  twenty-four 
hours  he  had  obtained  permission  from  the 
Chief  of  the  General  Staff  himself  to  take 
pictures  when  and  where  he  pleased.  Thomp- 
son remained  with  me  until  the  fall  of  Antwerp 
and  the  German  occupation,  and  no  man  could 
have  had  a  more  loyal  or  devoted  companion.! 
It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  he  saw  more 
of  the  campaign  in  Flanders  than  any  indi- 
vidual, military  or  civilian — "le  Capitaine 
Thompson,"  as  he  came  to  be  known,  being  a 
familiar  and  popular  figure  on  the  Belgian 
battle-line. 

There  is  one  other  person  of  whom  passing 
mention  should  be  made,  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  because  his  name  will  appear  from  time 
to  time  in  this  narrative.  I  take  pleasure, 
therefore,  in  introducing  you  to  M.  Marcel 
Roos,  the  young  Belgian  gentleman  who  drove 
my  motor-car.  When  war  was  declared,  Roos, 
who  belonged  to  the  jeunesse  doree  of  Brussels, 
gave  his  own  ninety  horse-power  car  to  the 
Government  and  enlisted  in  a  regiment  of 
grenadiers.  Because  he  was  as  familiar  with 
the  highways  and  byways  of  Belgium  as  a 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS      23 

ihousewife  is  with  her  kitchen,  and  because  he 
spoke  English,  French,  Flemish,  and  German, 
he  was  detailed  to  drive  the  car  which  the 
Belgian  Government  placed  at  my  disposal. 
He  was  as  big  and  loyal  and  good-natured  as  a 
St.  Bernard  dog  and  he  was  as  cool  in  danger 
as  Thompson — which  is  the  highest  compli- 
ment I  can  pay  him.  Incidentally,  he  was 
the  most  successful  forager  that  I  have  ever 
seen;  more  than  once,  in  villages  which  had 
apparently  been  swept  clean  of  everything 
edible  by  the  Belgians  or  the  Germans,  he 
produced  quite  an  excellent  dinner  as  mys- 
teriously as  a  conjurer  produces  rabbits  from 
a  hat. 

Now  you  must  bear  in  mind  that  although 
one  could  get  into  Antwerp  with  comparative 
ease,  it  by  no  means  followed  that  one  could 
get  out  to  the  firing-line.  A  long  procession 
of  correspondents  came  to  Antwerp  and  re- 
mained a  day  or  so  and  then  went  away  again 
without  once  getting  beyond  the  city  gates. 
Even  if  one  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  neces- 
sary laissez-passer  from  the  military  Govern- 
ment, there  was  no  way  of  reaching  the  front, 
as  all  the  automobiles  and  all  except  the  most 


24          FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

decrepit  horses  had  been  requisitioned  for  the 
use  of  the  army.  There  was,  you  understand, 
no  such  thing  as  hiring  an  automobile,  or  even 
buying  one.  Even  the  few  people  who  had 
influence  enough  to  retain  their  cars  found 
them  useless,  as  one  of  the  very  first  acts  of 
the  military  authorities  was  to  commandeer 
the  entire  supply  of  petrol.  The  bulk  of  the 
cars  were  used  in  the  ambulance  service  or 
for  purposes  of  transport,  the  army  train  con- 
sisting entirely  of  motor-vehicles.  Staff-officers, 
certain  Government  officials,  and  members  of 
the  diplomatic  and  consular  corps  were  pro- 
vided by  the  Government  with  automobiles 
and  military  drivers.  Every  one  else  walked 
or  used  the  trams.  Thus  it  frequently  hap- 
pened that  a  young  staff-officer,  who  had  never 
before  known  the  joys  of  motoring,  would  tear 
madly  down  the  street  in  a  luxurious  limousine, 
his  spurred  boots  resting  on  the  broadcloth 
cushions,  while  the  ci-devant  owner  of  the  car, 
who  might  be  a  banker  or  a  merchant  prince, 
would  jump  for  the  sidewalk  to  escape  being 
run  down.  With  the  declaration  of  war  and 
the  taking  over  of  all  automobiles  by  the  mili- 
tary, all  speed  laws  were  flung  to  the  winds. 


THE  WAR  CORRESPONDENTS      25 

No  matter  how  unimportant  his  business,  every 
one  tore  through  the  city  streets  as  though  the 
devil  (or  the  Germans)  were  behind  him.  The 
staid  citizens  of  Antwerp  quickly  developed  a 
remarkable  agility  in  getting  out  of  the  way  of 
furiously  driven  cars.  They  had  to.  Other- 
wise they  would  have  been  killed. 

Because,  from  the  middle  of  August  to  the 
middle  of  October,  Antwerp  was  the  capital 
of  Belgium  and  the  seat  of  the  King,  Cabinet, 
and  diplomatic  corps;  because  from  it  any 
point  on  the  battle-front  could  easily  be 
reached  by  motor-car;  and  because,  above  all 
else,  it  was  at  the  end  of  the  cable  and  the  one 
place  in  Belgium  where  there  was  any  certainty 
of  despatches  getting  through  to  England,  I 
made  it  my  headquarters  during  the  operations 
in  Flanders,  going  out  to  the  front  in  the 
morning  and  returning  to  the  Hotel  St.  Antoine 
at  night.  I  doubt  if  war  correspondence  has 
ever  been  carried  on  under  such  comfortable, 
even  luxurious,  conditions.  "Going  out  to  the 
front"  became  as  commonplace  a  proceed- 
ing as  for  a  commuter  to  take  the  morning 
train  to  the  city.  For  one  whose  previous 
campaigning  had  been  done  in  Persia  and 


26         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

Mexico  and  North  Africa  and  the  Balkans,  it 
was  a  novel  experience  to  leave  a  large  and 
fashionable  hotel  after  breakfast,  take  a  run 
of  twenty  or  thirty  miles  over  stone-paved 
roads  in  a  powerful  and  comfortable  car, 
witness  a  battle — provided,  of  course,  than 
there  happened  to  be  a  battle  on  that  day's 
list  of  events — and  get  back  to  the  hotel  in 
time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Imagine  it,  if  you 
please !  Imagine  leaving  a  line  of  battle, 
where  shells  were  shrieking  overhead  and  mus- 
ketry was  crackling  along  the  trenches,  and 
moaning,  blood-smeared  figures  were  being 
placed  in  ambulances  and  other  blood-smeared 
figures  who  no  longer  moaned  were  sprawled 
in  strange  attitudes  upon  the  ground — imagine 
leaving  such  a  scene,  I  say,  and  in  an  hour,  or 
even  less,  finding  oneself  in  a  hotel  where  men 
and  women  in  evening  dress  were  dining  by  the 
light  of  pink-shaded  candles,  or  in  the  marble- 
paved  palm  court  were  sipping  coffee  and 
liqueurs  to  the  sound  of  water  splashing  gently 
in  a  fountain. 


II 

THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM 

IN  order  to  grasp  the  true  significance  of  the 
events  which  preceded  and  led  up  to  the 
fall  of  Antwerp,  it  is  necessary  to  under- 
stand the  extraordinary  conditions  which  ex- 
isted in  and  around  that  city  when  I  reached 
there  the  middle  of  August.  At  that  time  all 
that  was  left  to  the  Belgians  of  Belgium  were 
the  provinces  of  Limbourg  and  East  and  West 
Flanders.  Everything  else  was  in  the  posses- 
sion of  the  Germans.  Suppose,  for  the  sake 
of  having  things  quite  clear,  that  you  unfold 
the  map  of  Belgium.  Now,  with  your  pencil, 
draw  a  line  across  the  country  from  east  to 
west,  starting  at  the  Dutch  city  of  Maastricht 
and  passing  through  Hasselt,  Diest,  Aerschot, 
Malines,  Alost,  and  Courtrai  to  the  French 
frontier.  This  line  was,  roughly  speaking, 
"the  front,"  and  for  upwards  of  two  months 
fighting  of  a  more  or  less  serious  character  took 
place  along  its  entire  length.  During  August 
and  the  early  part  of  September  this  fighting 
consisted,  for  the  most  part,  of  attempts  by 

27 


28         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

the  Belgian  field  army  to  harass  the  enemy  and 
to  threaten  his  lines  of  communication  and  of 
counter-attacks  by  the  Germans,  during  which 
Aerschot,  Malines,  Sempst,  and  Termonde 
repeatedly  changed  hands.  Some  twenty  miles 
or  so  behind  this  line  was  the  great  fortified 
position  of  Antwerp,  its  outer  chain  of  forts 
enclosing  an  area  with  a  radius  of  nearly  fifteen 
miles. 

Antwerp,  with  its  population  of  four  hun- 
dred thousand  souls,  its  labyrinth  of  dim  and 
winding  streets  lined  by  mediaeval  houses,  and 
its  splendid  modern  boulevards,  lies  on  the 
east  bank  of  the  Scheldt,  about  fifteen  miles 
from  Dutch  territorial  waters,  at  a  hairpin- 
turn  in  the  river.  The  defences  of  the  city 
were  modern,  extensive,  and  generally  believed, 
even  by  military  experts,  to  be  little  short  of 
impregnable.  In  fact,  Antwerp  was  almost 
universally  considered  one  of  the  three  or  four 
strongest  fortified  positions  in  Europe.  In 
order  to  capture  the  city  it  would  be  necessary 
for  an  enemy  to  break  through  four  distinct 
lines  of  defence,  any  one  of  which,  it  was 
believed,  was  strong  enough  to  successfully 
oppose  any  force  which  could  be  brought 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  29 

against  it.  The  outermost  line  of  forts  began 
at  Lierre,  a  dozen  miles  to  the  southeast  of 
the  city,  and  swept  in  a  great  quarter-circle, 
through  Wavre-St.  Catherine,  Waelhem,  Heyn- 
donck,  and  Willebroeck,  to  the  Scheldt  at 
Ruppelmonde.  Two  or  three  miles  behind 
this  outer  line  of  forts  a  second  line  of  defence 
was  formed  by  the  Rupel  and  the  Nethe, 
which,  together  with  the  Scheldt,  make  a  great 
natural  waterway  around  three  sides  of  the  city. 
Back  of  these  rivers,  again,  was  a  second  chain 
of  forts  completely  encircling  the  city  on  a 
five-mile  radius.  The  moment  that  the  first 
German  soldier  set  his  foot  on  Belgian  soil  the 
military  authorities  began  the  herculean  task 
of  clearing  of  trees  and  buildings  a  great  zone 
lying  between  this  inner  circle  of  forts  and  the 
city  ramparts  in  order  that  an  investing  force 
might  have  no  cover.  It  is  estimated  that 
within  a  fortnight  the  Belgian  sappers  and 
engineers  destroyed  property  to  the  value  of 
$80,000,000.  Not  San  Francisco  after  the 
earthquake,  nor  Dayton  after  the  flood,  nor 
Salem  after  the  fire  presented  scenes  of  more 
complete  desolation  than  did  the  suburbs  of  Ant- 
werp after  the  soldiers  had  finished  with  them. 


30         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

On  August  i,  1914,  no  city  in  all  Europe 
could  boast  of  more  beautiful  suburbs  than 
Antwerp.  Hidden  amid  the  foliage  of  great 
wooded  parks  were  stately  chateaux;  splendid 
country  houses  rose  from  amid  acres  of  green 
plush  lawns  and  blazing  gardens;  the  network 
of  roads  and  avenues  and  bridle-paths  were 
lined  with  venerable  trees,  whose  branches, 
meeting  overhead,  formed  leafy  tunnels;  scat- 
tered here  and  there  were  quaint  old-world 
villages,  with  plaster  walls  and  pottery  roofs 
and  lichen-covered  church  spires.  By  the  last 
day  of  August  all  this  had  disappeared.  The 
loveliest  suburbs  in  Europe  had  been  wiped 
from  the  earth  as  a  sponge  wipes  figures  from 
a  slate.  Every  house  and  church  and  windmill, 
every  tree  and  hedge  and  wall,  in  a  zone  some 
two  or  three  miles  wide  by  twenty  long,  was 
literally  levelled  to  the  ground.  For  mile  after 
mile  the  splendid  trees  which  lined  the  high- 
roads were  ruthlessly  cut  down;  mansions 
which  could  fittingly  have  housed  a  king  were 
dynamited;  churches  whose  walls  had  echoed 
to  the  tramp  of  the  Duke  of  Alva's  mail-clad 
men-at-arms  were  levelled;  villages  whose 
picturesqueness  was  the  joy  of  artists  and 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  31 

travellers  were  given  over  to  the  flames.  Cer- 
tainly not  since  the  burning  of  Moscow  has 
there  been  witnessed  such  a  scene  of  self- 
inflicted  desolation.  When  the  work  of  the 
engineers  was  finished  a  jack-rabbit  could  not 
have  approached  the  forts  without  being  seen. 
When  the  work  of  levelling  had  been  com- 
pleted, acres  upon  acres  of  barbed-wire  entan- 
glements were  constructed,  the  wires  being 
grounded  and  connected  with  the  city  lighting 
system  so  that  a  voltage  could  instantly  be 
turned  on  which  would  prove  as  deadly  as 
the  electric  chair  at  Sing  Sing.  Thousands  of 
men  were  set  to  work  sharpening  stakes  and 
driving  these  stakes,  point  upward,  in  the 
ground,  so  as  to  impale  any  soldiers  who  fell 
upon  them.  In  front  of  the  stakes  were  "man- 
traps," thousands  of  barrels  with  their  heads 
knocked  out  being  set  in  the  ground  and  then 
covered  with  a  thin  layer  of  laths  and  earth, 
which  would  suddenly  give  way  if  a  man 
walked  upon  it  and  drop  him  into  the  hole 
below.  And  beyond  the  zones  of  entangle- 
ments and  chevaux  de  frise  and  man-traps  the 
beet  and  potato  fields  were  sown  with  mines 
which  were  to  be  exploded  by  electricity  when 


32         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

the  enemy  was  fairly  over  them  and  blow  that 
enemy,  whole  regiments  at  a  time,  into  the 
air.  Stretching  across  the  fields  and  meadows 
were  what  looked  at  first  glance  like  enormous 
red-brown  serpents  but  which  proved,  upon 
closer  inspection,  to  be  trenches  for  infantry. 
The  region  to  the  south  of  Antwerp  is  a  net- 
work of  canals,  and  on  the  bank  of  every  canal 
rose,  as  though  by  magic,  parapets  of  sand- 
bags. Charges  of  dynamite  were  placed  under 
every  bridge  and  viaduct  and  tunnel.  Barri- 
cades of  paving-stones  and  mattresses  and 
sometimes  farm  carts  were  built  across  the  high- 
ways. At  certain  points  wires  were  stretched 
across  the  roads  at  the  height  of  a  man's  head 
for  the  purpose  of  preventing  sudden  dashes 
by  armored  motor-cars.  The  walls  of  such 
buildings  as  were  left  standing  were  loopholed 
for  musketry.  Machine  guns  and  quick-firers 
were  mounted  everywhere.  At  night  the 
white  beams  of  the  search-lights  swept  this 
zone  of  desolation  and  turned  it  into  day. 
Now  the  pitiable  thing  about  it  was  that  all 
this  enormous  destruction  proved  to  have  been 
wrought  for  nothing,  for  the  Germans,  instead 
of  throwing  huge  masses  of  infantry  against 


i 


1 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  33 

the  forts,  as  it  was  anticipated  that  they  would 
do,  and  thus  giving  the  entanglements  and 
the  mine-fields  and  the  machine  guns  a  chance 
'  to  get  in  their  work,  methodically  pounded  the 
forts  to  pieces  with  siege-guns  stationed  a 
dozen  miles  away.  In  fact,  when  the  Germans 
entered  Antwerp  not  a  strand  of  barbed  wire 
had  been  cut,  not  a  barricade  defended,  not  a 
mine  exploded.  This,  mind  you,  was  not  due 
to  any  lack  of  bravery  on  the  part  of  the 
Belgians — Heaven  knows,  they  did  not  lack 
for  that ! — but  to  the  fact  that  the  Germans 
never  gave  them  a  chance  to  make  use  of  these 
elaborate  and  ingenious  devices.  It  was  like  a 
man  letting  a  child  painstakingly  construct  an 
edifice  of  building-blocks  and  then,  when  it 
was  completed,  suddenly  sweeping  it  aside 
with  his  hand. 

As  a  result  of  these  elaborate  precautions, 
it  was  as  difficult  to  go  in  or  out  of  Antwerp 
as  it  is  popularly  supposed  to  be  for  a  mil- 
lionaire to  enter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven. 
Sentries  were  as  thick  as  policemen  on  Broad- 
way. You  could  not  proceed  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  along  any  road,  in  any  direction,  without 
being  halted  by  a  harsh  "Qui  vive?"  and 


34         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

having  the  business  end  of  a  rifle  turned  in 
your  direction.  If  your  papers  were  net  in 
order  you  were  promptly  turned  back — or 
arrested  as  a  suspicious  character  and  taken 
before  an  officer  for  examination — though  if 
you  were  sufficiently  in  the  confidence  of  the 
military  authorities  to  be  given  the  password, 
you  were  usually  permitted  to  pass  without 
further  question.  It  was  some  time  before  I 
lost  the  thrill  of  novelty  and  excitement  pro- 
duced by  this  halt-who-goes-there-advance- 
friend-and-give-the-countersign  business.  It 
was  so  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  that,  as  a  boy, 
I  used  to  read  about  in  books  by  George  A. 
Henty  that  it  seemed  improbable  and  unreal. 
When  we  were  motoring  at  night  and  a  per- 
emptory challenge  would  come  from  out  the 
darkness  and  the  lamps  of  the  car  would  pick 
out  the  cloaked  figure  of  the  sentry  as  the  spot- 
light picks  out  the  figure  of  an  actor  on  the 
stage,  and  I  would  lean  forward  and  whisper 
the  magic  mot  d'ordre,  I  always  had  the  feeling 
that  I  was  taking  part  in  a  play — which  was 
not  so  very  far  from  the  truth,  for,  though  I 
did  not  appreciate  it  at  the  time,  we  were  all 
actors,  more  or  less  important,  in  the  greatest 
-drama  ever  staged. 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  35 

In  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Antwerp  the 
sentries  were  soldiers  of  the  regular  army 
and  understood  a  sentry's  duties,  but  in  the 
outlying  districts,  particularly  between  Ostend 
and  Ghent,  the  roads  were  patrolled  by 
members  of  the  Garde  civique,  all  of  whom 
seemed  imbued  with  the  idea  that  the  safety 
of  the  nation  depended  upon  their  vigilance, 
which  was  a  very  commendable  and  proper 
attitude  indeed.  When  I  was  challenged  by 
a  Garde  civique  I  was  always  a  little  nervous, 
and  wasted  no  time  whatever  in  jamming  on 
the  brakes,  because  the  poor  fellows  were 
nearly  always  excited  and  handled  their  rifles  in 
a  fashion  which  was  far  from  being  reassuring. 
More  than  once,  while  travelling  in  the  out- 
lying districts,  we  were  challenged  by  civil 
guards  who  evidently  had  not  been  intrusted 
with  the  password,  but  who,  when  it  was 
whispered  to  them,  would  nod  their  heads 
importantly  and  tell  us  to  pass  on. 

"The  next  sentry  that  we  meet,"  I  said  to 
Roos  on  one  of  these  occasions,  "probably 
has  no  idea  of  the  password.  I'll  bet  you  a 
box  of  cigars  that  I  can  give  him  any  word 
that  comes  into  my  head  ^and  that  he  won't 
know  the  difference." 


36         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

As  we  rolled  over  the  ancient  drawbridge 
which  gives  admittance  to  sleepy  Bruges,  a 
bespectacled  sentry,  who  looked  as  though  he 
had  suddenly  been  called  from  an  accountant's 
desk  to  perform  the  duties  of  a  soldier,  held 
up  his  hand,  palm  outward,  which  is  the  signal 
to  stop  the  world  over. 

"Halt!"  he  commanded  quaveringly.  "Ad- 
vance slowly  and  give  the  word." 

I  leaned  out  as  the  car  came  opposite  him. 
"Kalamazoo,"  I  whispered.  The  next  instant 
I  was  looking  into  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle. 

"Hands  up !"  he  shouted,  and  there  was 
no  longer  any  quaver  in  his  voice.  "That  is 
not  the  word.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if 
you  were  German  spies.  Get  out  of  the  car!" 

It  took  half  an  hour  of  explanations  to  con- 
vince him  that  we  were  not  German  spies, 
that  we  really  did  know  the  password,  and 
that  we  were  merely  having  a  joke — though 
not,  as  we  had  planned,  at  his  expense. 

The  force  of  citizen  soldiery  known  as  the 

*  Garde  civique,  has,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  no 

exact   counterpart  in  any  other  country.    It 

is  composed  of  business  and  professional  men 

whose    chief   duties,    prior   to    the   war,    had 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  37 

been  to  show  themselves  on  occasions  of  cere- 
mony arrayed  in  gorgeous  uniforms,  which 
varied  according  to  the  province.  The  mounted 
division  of  the  Antwerp  Garde  civique  wore  a 
green-and-scarlet  uniform  which  resembled  as 
closely  as  possible  that  of  the  Guides,  the 
crack  cavalry  corps  of  the  Belgian  army.  In" 
the  Flemish  towns  the  civil  guards  wore  a 
blue  coat,  so  long  in  the  skirts  that  it  had  to 
be  buttoned  back  to  permit  of  their  walking, 
and  a  hat  of  stiff  black  felt,  resembling  a  bowler, 
with  a  feather  stuck  rakishly  in  the  band.  Early 
in  the  war  the  Germans  announced  that  they 
would  not  recognize  the  Gardes  civique s  as 
combatants,  and  that  any  of  them  who  were 
captured  while  fighting  would  meet  with  the 
same  fate  as  armed  civilians.  This  drastic 
ruling  resulted  in  many  amusing  episodes. 
When  it  was  learned  that  the  Germans  were 
approaching  Ghent,  sixteen  hundred  civil 
guardsmen  threw  their  rifles  into  the  canal 
and,  stripping  off  their  uniforms,  ran  about 
in  the  pink  and  light-blue  undergarments 
which  the  Belgians  affect,  frantically  begging 
the  townspeople  to  lend  them  civilian  clothing. 
As  a  whole,  however,  these  citizen  soldiers  did 


38         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

admirable  service,  guarding  the  roads,  tunnels, 
and  bridges,  assisting  the  refugees,  preserving 
order  in  the  towns,  and,  in  Antwerp,  taking 
entire  charge  of  provisioning  the  army. 

No  account  of  Antwerp  in  war  time  would 
be  complete  without  at  least  passing  mention 
of  the  boy  scouts,  who  were  one  of  the  city's 
most  picturesque  and  interesting  features.  I 
don't  quite  know  how  the  city  could  have 
gotten  along  without  them.  They  were  always 
on  the  job;  they  were  to  be  seen  everywhere 
and  they  did  everything.  They  acted  as 
messengers,  as  doorkeepers,  as  guides,  as  order- 
lies for  staff-officers,  and  as  couriers  for  the 
various  ministries;  they  ran  the  elevators  in 
the  hotels,  they  worked  in  the  hospitals,  they 
assisted  the  refugees  to  find  food  and  lodgings. 
The  boy  scouts  stationed  at  the  various  minis- 
tries were  on  duty  twenty-four  hours  at  a 
stretch.  They  slept  rolled  up  in  blankets  on 
the  floors;  they  obtained  their  meals  where 
and  when  they  could  and  paid  for  them  them- 
selves, and  made  themselves  extremely  useful. 
If  you  possessed  sufficient  influence  to  obtain 
a  motor-car,  a  boy  scout  was  generally  detailed 
to  sit  beside  the  driver  and  open  the  door  and 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  39 

act  as  a  sort  of  orderly.  I  had  one.  His  name 
was  Joseph.  He  was  most  picturesque.  He 
wore  a  sombrero  with  a  cherry-colored  pug- 
garee and  a  bottle-green  cape,  and  his  green 
stockings  turned  over  at  the  top  so  as  to  show 
knees  as  white  and  shapely  as  those  of  a  woman. 
To  tell  the  truth,  however,  I  had  nothing  for 
him  to  do.  So  when  I  was  not  out  in  the  car 
he  occupied  himself  in  running  the  lift  at  the 
Hotel  St.  Antoine.  Joseph  was  with  me 
during  the  German  attack  on  Waelhem.  We 
were  caught  in  a  much  hotter  place  than  we 
intended  and  for  half  an  hour  were  under 
heavy  shrapnel  fire.  I  was  curious  to  see  how 
the  youngster — for  he  was  only  fourteen — 
would  act.  Finally  he  turned  to  me,  his  black 
eyes  snapping  with  excitement.  "Have  I 
your  permission  to  go  a  little  nearer,  mon- 
sieur?" he  asked  eagerly.  "I  won't  be  gone 
long.  I  only  want  to  get  a  German  helmet.'* 
It  may  have  been  the  valor  of  ignorance 
which  these  broad-hatted,  bare-kneed  boys 
displayed,  but  it  was  the  sort  of  valor  which 
characterized  every  Belgian  soldier.  There  was 
one  youngster  of  thirteen  who  was  attached 
to  an  officer  of  the  staff  and  who  was  present 


40         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

at  every  battle  of  importance  from  the  evac- 
uation of  Brussels  to  the  fall  of  Antwerp.  I 
remember  seeing  him  during  the  retreat  of  the 
Belgians  from  Wesemael,  curled  up  in  the  ton- 
neau  of  a  car  and  sleeping  through  all  the 
turmoil  and  confusion.  I  felt  like  waking  him 
up  and  saying  sternly:  "Look  here,  sonny, 
you'd  better  trot  on  home.  Your  mother  will 
be  worried  to  death  about  you."  I  believe 
that  four  Belgian  boy  scouts  gave  up  their 
lives  in  the  service  of  their  country.  Two 
were  run  down  and  killed  by  automobiles  while 
on  duty  in  Antwerp.  Two  others  were,  I 
understand,  shot  by  German  troops  near 
Brussels  while  attempting  to  carry  despatches 
through  the  lines.  One  boy  scout  became  so 
adept  at  this  sort  of  work  that  he  was  regularly 
employed  by  the  Government  to  carry  mes- 
sages through  to  its  agents  in  Brussels.  His 
exploits  would  provide  material  for  a  boy's 
book  of  adventure  and,  as  a  fitting  conclusion, 
he  was  decorated  by  the  King. 

Any  one  who  went  to  Belgium  with  hard- 
and-fast  ideas  as  to  social  distinctions  quickly 
had  them  shattered.  The  fact  that  a  man 
wore  a  private's  uniform  and  sat  behind  the 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  41 

steering-wheel  of  your  car  and  respectfully 
touched  his  cap  when  you  gave  him  an  order 
did  not  imply  that  he  had  always  been  a 
chauffeur.  Roos,  who  drove  my  car  through- 
out my  stay  in  Belgium,  was  the  son  of  a 
Brussels  millionaire,  and  at  the  beginning  of 
hostilities  had,  as  I  think  I  have  mentioned 
elsewhere,  promptly  presented  his  own  power- 
ful car  to  the  Government.  The  aristocracy 
of  Belgium  did  not  hang  around  the  Ministry 
of  War  trying  to  obtain  commissions.  They 
simply  donned  privates'  uniforms,  and  went 
into  the  firing-line.  As  a  result  of  this  whole- 
hearted patriotism  the  ranks  of  the  Belgian 
army  were  filled  with  men  who  were  members 
of  the  most  exclusive  clubs  and  were  welcome 
guests  in  the  highest  social  circles  in  Europe. 
Almost  any  evening  during  the  earlier  part  of 
the  war  a  smooth-faced  youth  in  the  uniform 
of  a  private  soldier  could  have  been  seen  sit- 
ting amid  a  group  of  friends  at  dinner  in  the 
Hotel  St.  Antoine.  When  an  officer  entered 
the  room  he  stood  up  and  clicked  his  heels 
together  and  saluted.  He  was  Prince  Henri 
de  Ligne,  a  member  of  one  of  the  oldest 
and  most  distinguished  families  in  Belgium 


42         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

and  related  to  half  the  aristocracy  of  Europe. 
He,  poor  boy,  was  destined  never  again  to  fol- 
low the  hounds  or  to  lead  a  cotillon;  he  was 
killed  near  Herenthals  with  young  Count  de 
Villemont  and  Philippe  de  Zualart  while  en- 
gaged in  a  daring  raid  in  an  armored  motor-car 
into  the  German  lines  for  the  purpose  of  blow- 
ing up  a  bridge. 

When,  upon  the  occupation  of  Brussels  by 
the  Germans,  the  capital  of  Belgium  was  hastily 
transferred  to  Antwerp,  considerable  difficulty 
was  experienced  in  rinding  suitable  accommo- 
dations for  the  staffs  of  the  various  ministries, 
which  were  housed  in  any  buildings  which 
happened  to  be  available  at  the  time.  Thus, 
the  foreign  relations  of  the  nation  were  di- 
rected from  a  school  building  in  the  Avenue 
du  Commerce — the  Foreign  Minister,  Monsieur 
Davignon,  using  as  his  cabinet  the  room 
formerly  used  for  lectures  on  physiology,  the 
walls  of  which  were  still  covered  with  black- 
boards and  anatomical  charts.  The  Grand 
Hotel  was  taken  over  by  the  Government  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  Cabinet  Ministers 
and  their  staffs,  while  the  Ministers  of  State 
and  the  members  of  the  diplomatic  corps  were 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  43 

quartered  at  the  St.  Antoine.  In  fact,  it  used 
to  be  said  in  fun  that  if  you  got  into  difficulties 
with  the  police  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  get 
within  the  doors  of  the  hotel,  where  you  would 
be  safe,  for  half  of  the  ground  floor  was  tech- 
nically British  soil,  being  occupied  by  the 
British  Legation;  a  portion  of  the  second  floor 
was  used  by  the  Russian  Legation;  if  you  dashed 
into  a  certain  bedroom  you  could  claim 
Roumanian  protection,  and  in  another  you 
were,  theoretically,  in  Greece;  while  on  the 
upper  floor  extraterritoriality  was  exercised 
by  the  Republic  of  China.  Every  evening  all 
the  ministers  and  diplomats  met  in  the  big 
rose-and-ivory  dining-room — the  white  shirt- 
fronts  of  the  men  and  the  white  shoulders  of 
the  women,  with  the  uniforms  of  the  Belgian 
officers  and  of  the  British,  French  and  Russian 
military  attaches,  combining  to  form  a  wonder- 
fully brilliant  picture.  Looking  on  that  scene,  it 
was  hard  to  believe  that  by  ascending  to  the  roof 
of  the  hotel  you  could  see  the  glare  of  burning 
villages  and  hear  the  boom  of  German  cannon. 
As  the  siege  progressed  and  the  German  lines 
were  drawn  tighter,  the  military  regulations 
governing  life  in  Antwerp  increased  in  severity. 


44         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

The  local  papers  were  not  permitted  to  print 
any  accounts  of  Belgian  checks  or  reverses, 
and  at  one  time  the  importation  of  English 
newspapers  was  suspended.  Sealed  letters  were 
not  accepted  by  the  post-office  for  any  foreign 
countries  save  England,  Russia  and  France, 
and  even  these  were  held  four  days  before 
being  forwarded.  Telegrams  were,  of  course, 
rigidly  censored.  The  telephone  service  was 
suspended  save  for  governmental  purposes. 
At  eight  o'clock  the  trams  stopped  running. 
Save  for  a  few  ramshackle  vehicles,  drawn  by 
decrepit  horses,  the  cabs  had  disappeared  from 
the  streets.  The  city  went  spy-mad.  If  a 
man  ordered  Sauerkraut  and  sausage  for  lunch 
he  instantly  fell  under  suspicion.  Scarcely  a 
day  passed  without  houses  being  raided  and 
their  occupants  arrested  on  the  charge  of 
espionage.  It  was  reported  and  generally 
believed  that  those  whose  guilt  was  proved 
were  promptly  executed  outside  the  ramparts, 
but  of  this  I  have  my  doubts.  The  Belgians 
are  too  good-natured,  too  easy-going.  It  is 
probable,  of  course,  that  some  spies  were 
executed,  but  certainly  not  many. 
One  never  stirred  out-of-doors  in  Antwerp 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  45 

without  one's  papers,  which  had  to  be  shown 
before  one  could  gain  admission  to  the  post- 
office,  the  telegraph  bureau,  the  banks,  the 
railway  stations,  or  any  other  public  buildings. 
There  were  several  varieties  of  "papers." 
There  was  the  plain  passport,  which,  beyond 
establishing  your  nationality,  was  not  worth 
the  paper  it  was  written  on.  There  was  the 
permis  de  sejour,  which  was  issued  by  the  police 
to  those  who  were  able  to  prove  that  they  had 
business  which  necessitated  their  remaining 
in  the  city.  And  finally,  there  was  the  much- 
prized  laissez-passer,  which  was  issued  by  the 
military  government  and  usually  bore  the 
photograph  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was 
given,  which  proved  an  open  sesame  wherever 
shown,  and  which,  I  might  add,  was  exceedingly 
difficult  to  obtain. 

Only  once  did  my  laissez-passer  fail  me. 
During  the  final  days  of  the  siege,  when  the 
temper  and  endurance  of  the  Belgian  defenders 
were  strained  almost  to  the  breaking-point, 
I  motored  out  to  witness  the  German  assault 
on  the  forts  near  Willebroeck.  With  me  were 
Captain  Raymond  Briggs  of  the  United  States 
army  and  Thompson.  Before  continuing  to 


46         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

the  front  we  took  the  precaution  of  stopping 
at  division  headquarters  in  Boom  and  asking 
if  there  was  any  objection  to  our  proceeding; 
we  were  informed  that  there  was  none.  We 
had  not  been  on  the  firing-line  half  an  hour, 
however,  before  two  gendarmes  came  tearing 
up  in  a  motor-car  and  informed  us  that  we 
were  under  arrest  and  must  return  with  them 
to  Boom.  At  division  headquarters  we  were 
interrogated  by  a  staff  major  whose  temper 
was  as  fiery  as  his  hair.  Thompson,  as  was 
his  invariable  custom,  was  smoking  a  very  large 
and  very  black  cigar. 

"Take  that  cigar  out  of  your  mouth!" 
snapped  the  major  in  French.  "How  dare 
you  smoke  in  my  presence  ?" 

"Sorry,  major,"  said  Thompson,  grinning 
broadly,  "but  you'll  have  to  talk  American. 
I  don't  understand  French." 

"Stop  smiling!"  roared  the  now  infuriated 
!  officer.  "How  dare  you  smile  when  I  address 
f  you  ?  This  is  no  time  for  smiling,  sir !  This 
is  a  time  of  war !" 

Though  the  major  was  reluctantly  forced 
to  admit  that  our  papers  were  in  order,  we 
were  nevertheless  sent  to  staff  headquarters  in 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  47 

Antwerp  guarded  by  two  gendarmes,  one  of 
whom  was  the  bearer  of  a  dossier  in  which  it 
was  gravely  recited  that  Captain  Briggs  and  I 
had  been  arrested  while  in  the  company  of  a 
person  calling  himself  Donald  Thompson,  who 
was  charged  by  the  chief  of  staff  with  having 
smiled  and  smoked  a  cigar  in  his  presence. 
Needless  to  say,  the  whole  opera-bou/e  affair 
was  promptly  disavowed  by  the  higher  author- 
ities. I  have  mentioned  the  incident  because 
it  was  the  sole  occasion  on  which  I  met  with 
so  much  as  a  shadow  of  discourtesy  from  any 
Belgian,  either  soldier  or  civilian.  I  doubt  if 
in  any  other  country  in  the  world  in  time  of 
war,  a  foreigner  would  have  been  permitted 
to  go  where  and  when  he  pleased,  as  I  was, 
and  would  have  met  with  hospitality  and 
kindness  from  every  one. 

The  citizens  of  Antwerp  hated  the  Germans 
with  a  deeper  and  more  bitter  hatred,  if  such 
a  thing  were  possible,  than  the  people  of  any 
other  part  of  Belgium.  This  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  in  no  foreign  city  where  Germans 
dwelt  and  did  business  were  they  treated  with 
such  marked  hospitality  and  consideration  as 
in  Antwerp.  They  had  been  given  franchises 


48         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

and  concessions  and  privileges  of  every  descrip- 
tion; they  had  been  showered  with  honors 
and  decorations;  they  were  welcome  guests 
on  every  occasion;  city  streets  had  been  named 
after  leading  German  residents;  time  and 
time  again,  both  at  private  dinners  and  public 
banquets,  they  had  asserted,  wine-glass  in  hand, 
their  loyalty  and  devotion  to  the  city  which 
was  their  home.  Yet,  the  moment  oppor- 
tunity offered,  they  did  not  scruple  to  betray 
it.  In  the  cellar  of  the  house  belonging  to 
one  of  the  most  prominent  German  residents 
the  police  found  large  stores  of  ammunition 
and  hundreds  of  rifles  and  German  uniforms. 
A  German  company  had,  as  a  result  of  criminal 
stupidity,  been  awarded  the  contract  for  wir- 
ing the  forts  defending  the  city — and  when 
the  need  arose  it  was  found  that  the  wiring 
was  all  but  worthless.  A  wealthy  German  had 
a  magnificent  country  estate  the  gardens  of 
which  ran  down  to  the  moat  of  one  of  the 
outlying  forts.  One  day  he  suggested  to  the 
military  authorities  that  if  they  would  permit 
him  to  obtain  the  necessary  water  from  the 
moat,  he  would  build  a  swimming  pool  in 
his  garden  for  the  use  of  the  soldiers.  What 


THE  CITY  OF  GLOOM  49 

appeared  to  be  a  generous  offer  was  gladly 
accepted — but  when  the  day  of  action  came 
it  was  found  that  the  moat  had  been  drained 
dry.  In  the  grounds  of  another  country  place 
were  discovered  concrete  emplacements  for 
the  use  of  the  German  siege-guns.  Thus  the 
German  residents  repaid  the  hospitality  of 
their  adopted  city. 

When  the  war-cloud  burst  every  German 
was  promptly  expelled  from  Antwerp.  In  a 
few  cases  the  mob  got  out  of  hand  and  smashed 
the  windows  of  some  German  saloons  along  the 
water-front,  but  no  Germans  were  injured  or 
mistreated.  They  were  merely  shipped,  bag 
and  baggage,  across  the  frontier.  That,  in  my 
opinion  at  least,  is  what  should  have  been 
done  with  the  entire  civil  population  of 
Antwerp — provided,  of  course,  that  the  Gov- 
ernment intended  to  hold  the  city  at  all  costs. 
The  civilians  seriously  hampered  the  move- 
ments of  the  troops  and  thereby  interfered 
with  the  defence;  the  presence  of  large  num- 
bers of  women  and  children  in  the  city  dur- 
ing the  bombardment  unquestionably  caused 
grave  anxiety  to  the  defenders  and  was  prob- 
ably one  of  the  chief  reasons  for  the  evac- 


So         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

uation  taking  place  when  it  did;  the 
masses  of  civilian  fugitives  who  choked  the 
roads  in  their  mad  flight  from  Antwerp  were 
in  large  measure  responsible  for  the  capture 
of  a  considerable  portion  of  the  retreating 
Belgian  army  and  for  the  fact  that  other 
bodies  of  troops  were  driven  across  the  frontier 
and  interned  in  Holland.  So  strongly  was 
the  belief  that  Antwerp  was  impregnable 
implanted  in  every  Belgian's  mind,  however, 
that  up  to  the  very  last  not  one  citizen  in  a 
thousand  would  admit  that  there  was  a  possi- 
bility that  it  could  be  taken.  The  army  did 
not  believe  that  it  could  be  taken.  The  Gen- 
eral Staff  did  not  believe  that  it  could  be 
taken.  They  were  destined  to  have  a  rude 
and  sad  awakening. 


Ill 

THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR 

A  eleven  minutes  past  one  o'clock  on 
the  morning  of  August  25  death  came 
to  Antwerp  out  of  the  air.  Some  one 
had  sent  a  bundle  of  English  and  American 
newspapers  to  my  room  in  the  Hotel  St. 
Antoine  and  I  had  spent  the  evening  reading 
them,  so  that  the  bells  of  the  cathedral  had 
already  chimed  one  o'clock  when  I  switched 
off  my  light  and  opened  the  window.  As  I 
did  so  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  curious 
humming  overhead,  like  a  million  bumble- 
bees. I  leaned  far  out  of  the  window,  and  as 
I  did  so  an  indistinct  mass,  which  gradually 
resolved  itself  into  something  resembling  a 
gigantic  black  cigar,  became  plainly  apparent 
against  the  purple-velvet  sky.  I  am  not  good 
at  estimating  altitudes,  but  I  should  say  that  i 
when  I  first  caught  sight  of  it  it  was  not  more 
than  a  thousand  feet  above  my  head — and  my 
room  was  on  the  top  floor  of  the  hotel,  re- 
member. As  it  drew  nearer  the  noise,  which 
had  at  first  reminded  me  of  a  swarm  of  angry 

51 


52         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

bees,  grew  louder,  until  it  sounded  like  an 
automobile  with  the  muffler  open.  Despite 
the  darkness  there  was  no  doubting  what  it  was. 
It  was  a  German  Zeppelin. 

Even  as  I  looked  something  resembling  a 
falling  star  curved  across  the  sky.  An  instant 
later  came  a  rending,  shattering  crash  that 
shook  the  hotel  to  its  foundations,  the  walls  of 
my  room  rocked  and  reeled  about  me,  and  for 
a  breathless  moment  I  thought  that  the  build- 
ing was  going  to  collapse.  Perhaps  thirty 
seconds  later  came  another  splitting  explosion, 
and  another,  and  then  another — ten  in  all — 
each,  thank  Heaven,  a  little  farther  removed. 
It  was  all  so  sudden,  so  utterly  unexpected, 
that  it  must  have  been  quite  a  minute  before 
I  realized  that  the  monstrous  thing  hovering 
in  the  darkness  overhead  was  one  of  the  diri- 
gibles of  which  we  had  read  and  talked  so 
much,  and  that  it  was  actually  raining  death 
,  upon  the  sleeping  city  from  the  sky.  I  suppose 
it  was  blind  instinct  that  caused  me  to  run  to 
the  door  and  down  the  corridor  with  the  idea 
of  getting  into  the  street,  never  stopping  to 
reason,  of  course,  that  there  was  no  protection 
in  the  street  from  Zeppelins.  But  before  I 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR         53 

had  gone  a  dozen  paces  I  had  my  nerves  once 
more  in  hand.  "Perhaps  it  isn't  a  Zeppelin, 
after  all,"  I  argued  to  myself.  "I  may  have 
been  dreaming.  And  how  perfectly  ridiculous 
I  should  look  if  I  were  to  dash  down-stairs  in 
my  pajamas  and  find  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. At  least  I'll  go  back  and  put  some 
clothes  on."  And  I  did.  No  fireman,  respond- 
ing to  a  night  alarm,  ever  dressed  quicker.  As 
I  ran  through  the  corridors  the  doors  of  bed- 
rooms opened  and  sleepy-eyed,  tousle-headed 
diplomatists  and  Government  officials  called 
after  me  to  ask  if  the  Germans  were  bombard- 
ing the  city. 

"They  are,"  I  answered,  without  stopping. 
There  was  no  time  to  explain  that  for  the  first 
time  in  history  a  city  was  being  bombarded 
from  the  air. 

I  found  the  lobby  rapidly  filling  with  scan- 
tily clad  guests,  whose  teeth  were  visibly  chat- 
tering. Guided  by  the  hotel  manager  and 
accompanied  by  half  a  dozen  members  of  the 
diplomatic  corps  in  pajamas,  I  raced  up-stairs 
to  a  sort  of  observatory  on  the  hotel  roof.  I 
remember  that  one  attache  of  the  British 
Legation,  ordinarily  a  most  dignified  person, 


54         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

had  on  some  sort  of  a  night-robe  of  purple  silk 
and  that  when  he  started  to  climb  the  iron 
ladder  of  the  fire-escape  he  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  a  burglarious  suffragette. 

By  the  time  we  reached  the  roof  of  the  hotel 
Belgian  high-angle  and  machine  guns  were 
stabbing  the  darkness  with  spurts  of  flame,  the 
troops  of  the  garrison  were  blazing  away  with 
rifles,  and  the  gendarmes  in  the  streets  were 
shooting  wildly  with  their  revolvers:  the 
noise  was  deafening.  Oblivious  of  the  con- 
sternation and  confusion  it  had  caused,  the 
Zeppelin,  after  letting  fall  a  final  bomb,  slowly 
rose  and  disappeared  in  the  upp'er  darkness. 

The  destruction  wrought  by  the  German 
projectiles  was  almost  incredible.  The  first 
shell,  which  I  had  seen  fall,  struck  a  building 
in  the  Rue  de  Bourse,  barely  two  hundred 
yards  in  a  straight  line  from  my  window.  A 
hole  was  not  merely  blown  through  the  roof, 
as  would  have  been  the  case  with  a  shell  from 
a  field-gun,  but  the  three  upper  stories  simply 
crumbled,  disintegrated,  came  crashing  down 
in  an  avalanche  of  brick  and  stone  and  plaster, 
as  though  a  Titan  had  hit  it  with  a  sledge- 
hammer. Another  shell  struck  in  the  middle 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR        55 

of  the  Poids  Public,  or  public  weighing-place, 
which  is  about  the  size  of  Gramercy  Park  in 
New  York.  It  blew  a  hole  in  the  cobblestone 
pavement  large  enough  to  bury  a  horse  in; 
one  policeman  on  duty  at  the  far  end  of  the 
square  was  instantly  killed  and  another  had 
both  legs  blown  off.  But  this  was  not  all 
nor  nearly  all.  Six  people  sleeping  in  houses 
fronting  on  the  square  were  killed  in  their  beds 
and  a  dozen  others  were  more  or  less  seriously 
wounded.  Every  building  facing  on  the  square 
was  either  wholly  or  partially  demolished,  the 
steel  splinters  of  the  projectile  tearing  their 
way  through  the  thick  brick  walls  as  easily  as 
a  lead-pencil  is  jabbed  through  a  sheet  of  paper. 
And,  as  a  result  of  the  terrific  concussion,  every 
house  within  a  block  of  the  square  in  every 
direction  had  its  windows  broken.  On  no 
battle-field  have  I  ever  seen  so  horrible  a  sight 
as  that  which  turned  me  weak  and  nauseated 
when  I  entered  one  of  the  shattered  houses  and 
made  my  way,  over  heaps  of  fallen  debris,  to 
a  room  where  a  young  woman  had  been  sleep- 
ing. She  had  literally  been  blown  to  frag- 
ments. The  floor,  the  walls,  the  ceiling,  were 
splotched  with — well,  it's  enough  to  say  that 


56         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

that  woman's  remains  could  only  have  been 
collected  with  a  shovel,  and  I'm  not  speaking 
flippantly  either.  I  have  purposely  dwelt  upon 
these  details,  revolting  as  they  are,  because 
I  wish  to  drive  home  the  fact  that  the  only 
victims  of  this  air  raid  on  Antwerp  were  inno- 
cent non-combatants. 

Another  shell  struck  the  roof  of  a  physician's 
house  in  the  fashionable  Rue  des  Escrimeurs, 
killing  two  maids  who  were  sleeping  in  a  room 
on  the  upper  floor.  A  shell  fell  in  a  garden 
in  the  Rue  von  Bary,  terribly  wounding  a  man 
and  his  wife.  A  little  child  was  mangled  by  a 
shell  which  struck  a  house  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Justice.  Another  shell  fell  in  the  barracks  in 
the  Rue  Falcon,  killing  one  inmate  and  wound- 
ing two  others.  By  a  fortunate  coincidence 
the  regiment  which  had  been  quartered  in  the 
barracks  had  left  for  the  front  on  the  previous 
day.  A  woman  who  was  awakened  by  the 
first  explosion  and  leaned  from  her  window  to 
see  what  was  happening  had  her  head  blown 
off.  In  all  ten  people  were  killed,  six  of  whom 
were  women,  and  upwards  of  forty  wounded, 
two  of  them  so  terribly  that  they  afterwards 
died.  There  is  very  little  doubt  that  a  deliber- 


8, 


•-'-'•-;• 

•  • 


The  effect  of  one  of  the  bombs  dropped  from  a  Zeppelin 
on  Antwerp. 

'The  steel  splinters  tore  their  way  through  the  thick  brick  walls  as  easily  as  a 
lead-pencil  is  jabbed  through  a  sheet  of  paper." 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR         57 

ate  attempt  was  made  to  kill  the  royal  family, 
the  General  Staff,  and  the  members  of  the 
Government,  one  shell  bursting  within  a  hun- 
dred yards  of  the  royal  palace,  where  the  King 
and  Queen  were  sleeping,  and  another  within 
two  hundred  yards  of  staff  headquarters  and 
the  Hotel  St.  Antoine. 

As  a  result  of  this  night  of  horror,  Antwerp, 
to  use  an  inelegant  but  descriptive  expression, 
developed  a  violent  case  of  the  jimjams.  The 
next  night  and  every  night  thereafter  until  the 
Germans  came  in  and  took  the  city,  she  thought 
she  saw  things;  not  green  rats  and  pink  snakes, 
but  large,  sausage-shaped  balloons  with  bombs 
dropping  from  them.  The  military  author- 
ities— for  the  city  was  under  martial  law — 
screwed  down  the  lid  so  tight  that  even  the 
most  rabid  prohibitionists  and  social  reformers 
murmured.  As  a  result  of  the  precautionary 
measures  which  were  taken,  Antwerp,  with  its 
four  hundred  thousand  inhabitants,  became 
about  as  cheerful  a  place  of  residence  as  a 
country  cemetery  on  a  rainy  evening.  At  eight 
o'clock  every  street  light  was  turned  off,  every 
shop  and  restaurant  and  cafe  closed,  every 
window  darkened.  If  a  light  was  seen  in  a 


58         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

window  after  eight  o'clock  the  person  who 
occupied  that  room  was  in  grave  danger  of 
being  arrested  for  signalling  to  the  enemy. 
My  room,  which  was  on  the  third  floor  of  the 
hotel,  was  so  situated  that  its  windows  could 
not  be  seen  from  the  street,  and  hence  I  was 
not  as  particular  about  lowering  the  shades 
as  I  should  have  been.  The  second  night 
after  the  Zeppelin  raid  the  manager  came 
bursting  into  my  room.  "Quick,  Mr.  Powell," 
he  called  excitedly,  "pull  down  your  shade. 
The  observers  in  the  cathedral  tower  have  just 
sent  word  that  your  windows  are  lighted  and 
the  police  are  down-stairs  to  find  out  what  it 
means." 

The  darkness  of  London  and  Paris  was  a 
joke  beside  the  darkness  of  Antwerp.  It  was 
so  dark  in  the  narrow,  winding  streets,  bordered 
by  ancient  houses,  that  when,  as  was  my 
custom,  I  went  to  the  telegraph  office  with 
my  despatches  after  dinner,  I  had  to  feel  my 
way  with  a  cane,  like  a  blind  man.  To  make 
conditions  more  intolerable,  if  such  a  thing 
were  possible,  cordons  of  sentries  were  thrown 
around  those  buildings  under  whose  roofs  the( 
members  of  the  Government  slept,  so  that  if 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR         59 

one  returned  after  nightfall  he  was  greeted  by 
a  harsh  command  to  halt,  and  a  sentry  held  a 
rifle  muzzle  against  his  breast  while  another '• 
sentry,  by  means  of  a  dark  lantern,  scrutinized 
his  papers.  Save  for  the  sentries,  the  streets" 
were  deserted,  for,  as  the  places  of  amusement 
and  the  eating  places  and  drinking  places  were 
closed,  there  was  no  place  for  the  people  to  go 
except  to  bed.  I  was  reminded  of  the  man 
who  told  his  wife  that  he  came  home  because 
all  the  other  places  were  closed. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  Antwerp  was 
indifferent  to  its  fate,  but  it  made  no  such 
impression  on  me.  Never  have  I  lived  in  such 
an  atmosphere  of  depression  and  gloom.  Except 
around  the  St.  Antoine  at  the  lunch  and 
dinner  hours  and  in  the  cafes  just  before 
nightfall  did  one  see  anything  which  was  even 
a  second  cousin  to  jollity.  The  people  did  not 
smile.  They  went  about  with  grave  and 
anxious  faces.  In  fact,  outside  of  the  places  ' 
I  have  mentioned,  one  rarely  heard  a  laugh. 
The  people  who  sat  at  the  round  iron  tables 
on  the  sidewalks  in  front  of  the  cafes  drinking  i 
their  light  wines  and  beer — no  spirits  were 
permitted  to  be  sold — sat  in  silence  and  with 


60         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

solemn  faces.  God  knows,  there  was  little 
enough  for  them  to  smile  about.  Their  nation 
was  being  slowly  strangled.  Three  quarters 
of  its  soil  was  under  the  heel  of  the  invader. 
An  alien  flag,  a  hated  flag,  flew  over  their 
capital.  Their  King  and  their  Government 
were  fugitives,  moving  from  place  to  place  as 
a  vagrant  moves  on  at  the  approach  of  a 
policeman.  Men  who,  a  month  before,  were 
prosperous  shopkeepers  and  tradesmen  were 
virtual  bankrupts,  not  knowing  where  the  next 
hundred-franc  note  was  coming  from.  Other 
men  had  seen  their  little  flower-surrounded 
homes  in  the  suburbs  razed  to  the  ground  that 
an  approaching  enemy  might  find  no  cover. 
Though  the  shops  were  open,  they  had  no 
customers,  for  the  people  had  no  money,  or, 
if  they  had  money,  they  were  hoarding  it 
against  the  days  when  they  might  be  homeless 
fugitives.  No,  there  was  not  very  much  to 
smile  about  in  Antwerp. 

There  were  amusing  incidents,  of  course. 
If  one  recognizes  humor  when  he  sees  it  he 
can  find  it  in  almost  any  situation.  After  the 
first  Zeppelin  attack  the  management  of  the 
St.  Antoine  fitted  up  bedrooms  in  the  cellars. 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR         61 

A  century  or  more  ago  the  St.  Antoine  was 
not  a  hotel  but  a  monastery,  and  its  cellars 
are  all  that  the  cellars  of  a  monastery  ought  to 
be — thick-walled  and  damp  and  musty.  Yet 
these  subterranean  suites  were  in  as  great 
demand  among  the  diplomatists  as  are  tables 
in  the  palm  room  of  the  Savoy  during  the 
season.  From  my  bedroom  window,  which 
overlooked  the  court,  I  could  see  apprehensive 
guests  cautiously  emerging  from  their  cellar 
chambers  in  the  early  morning.  It  reminded 
me  of  woodchucks  coming  out  of  their  holes. 

As  the  siege  progressed  and  the  German 
guns  were  pushed  nearer  to  the  city,  those  who 
lived  in  what  might  be  termed  "conspicuous" 
localities  began  to  seek  other  quarters. 

"I'm  going  to  change  hotels  to-day,"  I 
heard  a  man  remark  to  a  friend. 

"Why?"  inquired  the  other. 

"Because  I  am  within  thirty  yards  of  the 
cathedral,"  was  the  answer.  The  towering 
spire  of  the  famous  cathedral  is,  you  must 
understand,  the  most  conspicuous  thing  in 
Antwerp — on  clear  days  you  can  see  it  from 
twenty  miles  away — and  to  live  in  its  imme- 
diate vicinity  during  a  bombardment  of  the 


62         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

city  was  equivalent  to  taking  shelter  under  the 
only  tree  in  a  field  during  a  heavy  thunder- 

*  storm. 

i 

Two  days  before  the  bombardment  began 
there  was  a  meeting  of  the  American  residents 
— such  of  them  as  still  remained  in  the  city — 
at  the  leading  club.  About  a  dozen  of  us  in 
all  sat  down  to  dinner.  The  purpose  of  the 
gathering  was  to  discuss  the  attitude  which 
the  Americans  should  adopt  towards  the 
German  officers,  for  it  was  known  that  the  fall 
of  the  city  was  imminent.  I  remember  that 
the  sense  of  the  meeting  was  that  we  should 
treat  the  helmeted  intruders  with  frigid  polite- 
ness— I  think  that  was  the  term — which,  trans- 
lated, meant  that  we  were  not  to  buy  them 
drinks  or  offer  them  cigars.  Of  the  twelve  of  us 
who  sat  around  the  table  that  night,  there  are 
only  two — Mr.  Manly  Whedbee  and  myself— who 
remained  to  witness  the  German  occupation. 

That  the  precautions  taken  against  Zeppelins 
were  by  no  means  overdone  was  proved  by  the 
total  failure  of  the  second  aerial  raid  on  Ant- 
werp, in  the  latter  part  of  September,  when 
a  dirigible  again  sailed  over  the  city  under 
cover  of  the  darkness.  Owing  to  the  total 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR         63 

absence  of  street  lights,  however,  the  dirigible's 
crew  were  evidently  unable  to  get  their  bear- 
ings, for  the  half  dozen  bombs  that  they 
discharged  fell  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city 
without  causing  any  loss  of  life  or  doing  any 
serious  damage.  This  time,  moreover,  the 
Belgians  were  quite  prepared — the  fire  of  their 
"sky  artillery,"  guided  by  search-lights,  mak- 
ing things  exceedingly  uncomfortable  for  the 
Germans. 

I  have  heard  it  stated  by  Belgian  officers  and 
others  that  the  bombs  were  dropped  from  the 
dirigibles  by  an  ingenious  arrangement  which 
made  the  air-ship  itself  comparatively  safe  from 
harm  and  at  the  same  time  rendered  the  aim 
of  its  bombman  much  more  accurate.  Accord^ 
ing  to  them,  the  dirigible  comes  to  a  stop — or 
as  near  a  stop  as  possible — above  the  city  or 
fortification  which  it  wishes  to  attack,  at  a 
height  out  of  range  of  either  artillery  or  rifle 
fire.  Then,  by  means  of  a  steel  cable  a  thou- 
sand feet  or  more  in  length,  it  lowers  a  small 
wire  cage  just  large  enough  to  contain  a  man 
and  a  supply  of  bombs,  this  cage  being  suffi- 
ciently armored  so  that  it  is  proof  against 
rifle-bullets.  At  the  same  time  it  affords  so 


64 

tiny  a  mark  that  the  chances  of  its  being  hit 
by  artillery  fire  are  insignificant.  If  it  should 
be  struck,  moreover,  the  air-ship  itself  would 
still  be  unharmed  and  only  one  man  would  be 
lost,  and  when  he  fell  his  supply  of  bombs 
would  fall  with  him.  The  Zeppelin,  pre- 
sumably equipped  with  at  least  two  cages  and 
cables,  might  at  once  lower  another  bomb- 
thrower.  I  do  not  pretend  to  say  whether 
this  ingenious  contrivance  is  used  by  the 
Germans.  Certainly  the  Zeppelin  which  I 
saw  in  action  had  nothing  of  the  kind,  nor  did 
it  drop  its  projectiles  promiscuously,  as  one 
would  drop  a  stone,  but  apparently  discharged 
them  from  a  bomb  tube. 

Though  the  Zeppelin  raids  proved  wholly 
ineffective,  so  far  as  their  effect  on  troops  and 
fortifications  were  concerned,  the  German 
aviators  introduced  some  novel  tricks  in  aerial 
warfare  which  were  as  practical  as  they  were 
ingenious.  During  the  battle  of  Vilvorde, 
for  example,  and  throughout  the  attacks  on 
the  Antwerp  forts,  German  dirigibles  hovered 
at  a  safe  height  over  the  Belgian  positions  and 
directed  the  fire  of  the  German  gunners  with 
remarkable  success.  The  aerial  observers 


fee 


60   W 


3  i-l 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR        65 

watched,  through  powerful  glasses,  the  effect 
of  the  German  shells  and  then,  by  means  of  a 
large  disk  which  was  swung  at  the  end  of  a 
line  and  could  be  raised  or  lowered  at  will, 
signalled  as  need  be  in  code  "higher — lower — 
right — left"  and  thus  guided  the  gunners — 
who  were,  of  course,  unable  to  see  their  mark 
or  the  effect  of  their  fire — until  almost  every 
shot  was  a  hit.  At  Vilvorde,  as  a  result  of  this 
aerial  fire-control  system,  I  saw  the  German 
artillery,  posted  out  of  sight  behind  a  railway 
embankment,  get  the  range  of  a  retreating 
column  of  Belgian  infantry  and  with  a  dozen 
well-placed  shots  practically  wipe  it  out  of 
existence.  So  perfect  was  the  German  system 
of  observation  and  fire  control  during  the 
final  attack  on  the  Antwerp  defences  that 
whenever  the  Belgians  or  British  moved  a 
regiment  or  a  battery  the  aerial  observers 
instantly  detected  it  and  a  perfect  storm  of 
shells  was  directed  against  the  new  position. 

Throughout  the  operations  around  Antwerp, 
the  Taubes,  as  the  German  aeroplanes  are 
called  because  of  their  fancied  resemblance  to 
a  dove,  repeatedly  performed  daring  feats  of 
reconnoissance.  On  one  occasion,  while  I  was 


66         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

with  the  General  Staff  at  Lierre,  one  of  these 
German  Taubes  sailed  directly  over  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  which  was  being  used  as  staff  head- 
quarters. It  so  happened  that  King  Albert 
was  standing  in  the  street,  smoking  one  of  the 
seven-for-a-franc  Belgian  cigars  to  which  he 
was  partial. 

"The  Germans  call  it  a  dove,  eh  ?"  remarked 
the  King,  as  he  looked  up  at  the  passing  aircraft. 
"Well,  it  looks  to  me  more  like  a  hawk." 

A  few  days  before  the  fall  of  Antwerp  a  Taube 
flew  directly  over  the  city  in  the  early  afternoon, 
dropping  thousands  of  proclamations  printed 
in  both  French  and  Flemish  and  signed  by  the 
commander  of  the  investing  forces,  pointing  out 
to  the  inhabitants  the  futility  of  resistance, 
asserting  that  in  fighting  Germany  they  were 
playing  Russia's  game,  and  urging  them  to  lay 
down  their  arms.  The  aeroplane  was  greeted  by 
a  storm  of  shrapnel  from  the  high-angle  guns 
mounted  on  the  fortifications,  the  only  effect  of 
which,  however,  was  to  kill  two  unoffending 
citizens  who  were  standing  in  the  streets  and 
were  struck  by  the  fragments  of  the  falling  shells. 

Most  people  seem  to  have  the  impression 
that  it  is  as  easy  for  an  aviator  to  see  what  is 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR        67 

happening  on  the  ground  beneath  him  as 
though  he  were  looking  down  from  the  roof  of 
a  high  building.  Under  ordinary  conditions, 
when  one  can  skim  above  the  surface  of  the 
earth  at  a  height  of  a  few  hundred  feet,  this  is 
quite  true,  but  it  is  quite  a  different  matter 
when  one  is  flying  above  hostile  troops  who  are 
blazing  away  at  him  with  rifles  and  machine 
guns.  During  reconnoissance  work  the  airmen 
generally  are  compelled  to  ascend  to  an  altitude 
of  a  mile  or  a  mile  and  a  quarter,  which  makes 
observation  extremely  difficult,  as  small  object^, 
even  with  the  aid  of  the  strongest  glasses, 
assume  unfamiliar  shapes  and  become  fore- 
shortened. If,  in  order  to  obtain  a  better 
view,  they  venture  to  fly  at  a  lower  height, 
they  are  likely  to  be  greeted  by  a  hail  of  rifle 
fire  from  soldiers  in  the  trenches.  The  Belgian 
aviators  with  whom  I  talked  assured  me  that 
they  feared  rifle  fire  more  than  bursting 
shrapnel,  as  the  fire  of  a  regiment,  when  con- 
centrated even  on  so  elusive  an  object  as  an 
aeroplane,  proves  far  more  deadly  than  shells. 

The  Belgians  made  more  use  than  any  other 
nation  of  motor-cars.    When  war  was  declared 


68         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

one  of  the  first  steps  taken  by  the  military 
authorities  was  to  commandeer  every  motor- 
car, every  motor-cycle,  and  every  litre  of  petrol 
in  the  kingdom.  As  a  result  they  depended 
almost  entirely  upon  motor-driven  vehicles 
for  their  military  transport,  which  was,  I  might 
add,  extremely  efficient.  In  fact,  we  could 
always  tell  when  we  were  approaching  the  front 
by  the  amazing  number  of  motor-cars  which 
lined  the  roads  for  miles  in  the  rear  of  each 
division. 

Anything  that  had  four  wheels  and  a  motor 
to  drive  them — diminutive  American  run- 
abouts, slim,  low-hung  racing  cars,  luxurious 
limousines  with  coronets  painted  on  the  panels, 
delivery  cars  bearing  the  names  of  shops  in 
Antwerp  and  Ghent  and  Brussels,  lumbering 
motor-trucks,  hotel  omnibuses — all  met  the 
same  fate,  which  consisted  in  being  daubed  with 
elephant-gray  paint,  labelled  "S.M."  (Service 
Militaire)  in  staring  white  letters,  and  started 
for  the  front,  usually  in  charge  of  a  wholly 
inexperienced  driver.  It  made  an  automobile 
lover  groan  to  see  the  way  some  of  those  cars 
were  treated.  But  they  did  the  business. 
They  averaged  something  like  twelve  miles  an 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR        69 

hour — which  is  remarkable  time  for  army 
transport — and,  strangely  enough,  very  few  of 
them  broke  down.  If  they  did  there  was 
always  an  automobile  des  reparations  promptly 
on  hand  to  repair  the  damage.  Before  the 
war  began  the  Belgian  army  had  no  army  trans- 
port worthy  of  the  name;  before  the  forts  at 
Liege  had  been  silenced  it  had  as  efficient  a  one 
as  any  nation  in  Europe. 

The  headquarters  of  the  motor-car  branch 
of  the  army  was  at  the  Pare  des  Automobiles 
Militaires,  on  the  Red  Star  quays  in  Antwerp. 
Here  several  hundred  cars  were  always  kept 
in  reserve,  and  here  was  collected  an  enormous 
store  of  automobile  supplies  and  sundries. 
The  scene  under  the  long,  low  sheds,  with  their 
corrugated-iron  roofs,  always  reminded  me  of 
the  Automobile  Show  in  Madison  Square 
Garden.  After  a  car  had  once  been  placed 
at  your  disposal  by  the  Government,  getting 
supplies  for  it  was  merely  a  question  of  signing 
bons.  Obtaining  extra  equipment  for  my 
car  was  Roos's  chief  amusement.  Tires,  tools, 
spare  parts,  horns,  lamps,  trunks — all  you  had 
to  do  was  to  scrawl  your  name  at  the  foot  of  a 
printed  form  and  they  were  promptly  handed 


70         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

over.  When  I  first  went  to  Belgium  I  was 
given  a  sixty-horse-power  touring-car,  and 
when  the  weather  turned  unpleasant  I  asked 
for  and  was  given  a  limousine  that  was  big 
enough  to  sleep  in,  and  when  I  found  this  too 
clumsy,  Comte  de  Gruen,  the  commandant  of 
the  Pare  des  Automobiles,  obligingly  exchanged 
it  for  a  ninety-horse-power  berline.  They  were 
most  accommodating,  those  Belgians.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  my  berline,  which  was  the 
envy  of  every  one  in  Antwerp,  was  eventually 
captured  by  the  Germans. 

Though  both  the  French  and  the  Germans 
had  for  a  number  of  years  been  experimenting 
with  armored  cars  of  various  patterns,  the 
Belgians,  who  had  never  before  given  the 
subject  serious  consideration,  were  the  first 
to  evolve  and  to  send  into  action  a  really 
practical  vehicle  of  this  description.  The 
earlier  armored  cars  used  by  the  Belgians 
were  built  at  the  great  Minerva  factory  in 
Antwerp  and  consisted  of  a  circular  turret, 
high  enough  so  that  only  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  man  operating  the  machine  gun  were 
exposed,  covered  with  half-inch  steel  plates 
and  mounted  on  an  ordinary  chassis.  After 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR        71 

the  disastrous  affair  near  Herenthals,  in  which 
Prince  Henri  de  Ligne  was  mortally  wounded 
while  engaged  in  a  raid  into  the  German  lines 
for  the  purpose  of  blowing  up  bridges,  it  was 
seen  that  the  crew  of  the  automitrailleuses,  as 
the  armored  cars  were  called,  was  insufficiently 
protected,  and,  to  remedy  this,  a  movable 
steel  dome,  with  an  opening  for  the  muzzle 
of  the  machine  gun,  was  superimposed  on  the 
turret.  These  grim  vehicles,  which  jeered  at 
bullets,  and  were  proof  even  against  shrapnel, 
quickly  became  a  nightmare  to  the  Germans. 
Driven  by  the  most  reckless  racing  drivers  in 
Belgium,  manned  by  crews  of  dare-devil 
youngsters,  and  armed  with  machine  guns 
which  poured  out  lead  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand 
shots  a  minute,  these  wheeled  fortresses  would 
tear  at  will  into  the  German  lines,  cut  up  an 
outpost  or  wipe  out  a  cavalry  patrol,  dynamite 
a  bridge  or  a  tunnel  or  a  culvert,  and  be  back 
j  in  the  Belgian  lines  again  almost  before  the 
enemy  realized  what  had  happened. 

I  myself  witnessed  an  example  of  the  cool 
'daring  of  these  mitrailleuse  drivers  during  the 
fighting  around  Malines.  I  was  standing  on  a 
railway  embankment  watching  the  withdrawal 


72         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

under  heavy  fire  of  the  last  Belgian  troops, 
when  an  armored  car,  the  lean  muzzle  of  its 
machine  gun  peering  from  its  turret,  tore  past 
me  at  fifty  miles  an  hour,  spitting  a  murderous 
spray  of  lead  as  it  bore  down  on  the  advancing 
Germans.  But  when  within  a  few  hundred 
yards  of  the  German  line  the  car  slackened 
speed  and  stopped.  Its  petrol  was  exhausted. 
Instantly  one  of  the  crew  was  out  in  the  road 
and,  under  cover  of  the  fire  from  the  machine 
gun,  began  to  refill  the  tank.  Though  bullets 
were  kicking  up  spurts  of  dust  in  the  road  or 
ping-pinging  against  the  steel  turret  he  would 
not  be  hurried.  I,  who  was  watching  the 
scene  through  my  field-glasses,  was  much  more 
excited  than  he  was.  Then,  when  the  tank 
was  filled,  the  car  refused  to  back !  It  was  a 
big  machine  and  the  narrow  road  was  bordered 
on  either  side  by  deep  ditches,  but  by  a 
miracle  the  driver  was  able — and  just  able — 
to  turn  the  car  round.  Though  by  this  time 
the  German  gunners  had  the  range  and  shrapnel 
was  bursting  all  about  him,  he  was  as  cool  as 
though  he  were  turning  a  limousine  in  the 
width  of  Riverside  Drive.  As  the  car  straight- 
ened out  for  its  retreat,  the  Belgians  gave 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR        73 

the  Germans  a  jeering  screech  from  their  horn 
and  a  parting  blast  of  lead  from  their  machine 
gun  and  went  racing  Antwerpwards. 

It  is,  by  the  way,  a  curious  and  interesting 
fact  that  the  machine  gun  used  in  both  the 
Belgian  and  German  armored  cars,  and  which 
is  one  of  the  most  effective  weapons  produced 
by  the  war,  was  repeatedly  offered  to  the 
American  War  Department  by  its  inventor, 
Major  Isaac  Newton  Lewis,  of  the  United 
States  army,  and  was  as  repeatedly  rejected 
by  the  officials  at  Washington.  At  last,  in 
despair  of  receiving  recognition  in  his  own 
country,  he  sold  it  to  Germany  and  Belgium. 
The  Lewis  gun,  which  is  air-cooled  and  weighs 
only  twenty-nine  pounds — less  than  half  the 
weight  of  a  soldier's  equipment — fires  a  thou- 
sand shots  a  minute.  In  the  fighting  around 
Sempst  I  saw  trees  as  large  round  as  a  man's 
thigh  literally  cut  down  by  the  stream  of 
lead  from  these  weapons.  All  of  which  but 
proves  the  truth  of  the  Biblical  assertion  that 
"a  prophet  is  not  without  honor  save  in  his 
own  country." 

The  inventor  of  the  Lewis  gun  was  not  the 
only  American  who  played  an  inconspicuous 


74         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

but  none  the  less  important  part  in  the  War 
of  Nations.  A  certain  American  corporation 
doing  business  in  Belgium  placed  its  huge 
Antwerp  plant  and  the  services  of  its  corps  of 
skilled  engineers  at  the  service  of  the  Govern- 
ment, though  I  might  add  that  this  fact  was 
kept  carefully  concealed,  being  known  to  only 
a  handful  of  the  higher  Belgian  officials.  This 
concern  made  shells  and  other  ammunition  for 
the  Belgian  army;  it  furnished  aeroplanes  and 
machine  guns;  it  constructed  miles  of  barbed- 
wire  entanglements  and  connected  those  en- 
tanglements with  the  city  lighting  system; 
one  of  its  officers  went  on  a  secret  mission  to 
England  and  brought  back  with  him  a  supply 
of  cordite,  not  to  mention  six  large-calibre 
guns  which  he  smuggled  through  Dutch 
territorial  waters  hidden  in  the  steamer's  coal 
bunkers.  And,  as  though  all  this  were  not 
enough,  the  Belgian  Government  confided  to 
this  foreign  corporation  the  minting  of  the  na- 
tional currency.  For  obvious  reasons  I  am  not 
at  liberty  to  mention  the  name  of  this  concern, 
though  it  is  known  to  practically  every  person 
in  the  United  States,  each  month  checks  being 
sent  to  the  parent  concern  by  eight  hundred 


THE  DEATH  IN  THE  AIR        75 

thousand  people  in  New  York  alone.  Inci- 
dentally it  publishes  the  most  widely  read 
volume  in  the  world.  I  wish  that  I  might 
tell  you  the  name  of  this  concern.  Upon 
second  thought,  I  think  I  will.  It  is  the 
Bell  Telephone  Company. 


IV 
UNDER  THE  GERMAN   EAGLE 

WHEN,  upon  the  approach  of  the  Ger- 
mans to  Brussels,  the  Government 
and  the  members  of  the  diplomatic 
corps  fled  to  Antwerp,  the  American  Minister, 
Mr.  Brand  Whitlock,  did  not  accompany  them. 
In  view  of  the  peculiar  position  occupied  by  the 
United  States  as  the  only  Great  Power  not  in- 
volved in  hostilities,  he  felt,  and,  as  it  proved, 
quite  rightly,  that  he  could  be  of  more  service 
to  Belgium  and  to  Brussels  and  to  the  cause 
of  humanity  in  general  by  remaining  behind. 
There  remained  with  him  the  secretary  of  le- 
gation, Mr.  Hugh  S.  Gibson.  Mr.  Whitlock's 
reasons  for  remaining  in  Brussels  were  two- 
fold. In  the  first  place,  there  were  a  large  num- 
ber of  English  and  Americans,  both  residents 
and  tourists,  who  had  been  either  unable  or  un- 
willing to  leave  the  city,  and  who,  he  felt,  were 
entitled  to  diplomatic  protection.  Secondly, 
the  behavior  of  the  German  troops  in  other 
Belgian  cities  had  aroused  grave  fears  of  what 

76 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE    77 

would  happen  when  they  entered  Brussels,  and 
it  was  generally  felt  that  the  presence  of  the 
American  Minister  might  deter  them  from  com- 
mitting the  excesses  and  outrages  which  up  to 
that  time  had  characterized  their  advance.  It 
was  no  secret  that  Germany  was  desperately 
anxious  to  curry  favor  with  the  United  States, 
and  it  was  scarcely  likely,  therefore,  that  houses 
would  be  sacked  and  burnt,  civilians  executed, 
and  women  violated  under  the  disapproving 
eyes  of  the  American  representative.  This 
surmise  proved  to  be  well  founded.  The 
Germans  did  not  want  Mr.  Whitlock  in 
Brussels,  and  nothing  would  have  pleased  them 
better  than  to  have  had  him  depart  and  leave 
them  to  their  own  devices,  but,  so  long  as  he 
blandly  ignored  their  hints  that  his  room  was 
preferable  to  his  company  and  persisted  in 
sitting  tight,  they  submitted  to  his  surveillance 
with  the  best  grace  possible  and  behaved  them- 
selves as  punctiliously  as  a  dog  that  has  been 
permitted  to  come  into  a  parlor.  After  the 
civil  administration  had  been  established,  how- 
ever, and  Belgium  had  become,  in  theory  at 
least,  a  German  province,  Mr.  Whitlock  was 
told  quite  plainly  that  the  kingdom  to  which  he 


78         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

was  accredited  had  ceased  to  exist  as  an  in- 
dependent nation,  and  that  Anglo-American 
affairs  in  Belgium  could  henceforward  be  in- 
trusted, to  the  American  Ambassador  at  Ber- 
lin. But  Mr.  Whitlock,  who  had  received  his 
training  in  shirt-sleeve  diplomacy  as  Socialist 
Mayor  of  Toledo,  Ohio,  was  as  impervious  to 
German  suggestions  as  he  had  been  to  the 
threats  and  pleadings  of  party  politicians,  and 
told  Baron  von  der  Goltz,  the  German  Governor, 
politely  but  quite  firmly,  that  he  did  not  take 
his  orders  from  Berlin  but  from  Washington. 
"Gott  in  Himmel!"  exclaimed  the  Germans, 
shrugging  their  shoulders  despairingly,  "what 
is  to  be  done  with  such  a  man  ?" 

Before  the  Germans  had  been  in  occupation 
of  Brussels  a  fortnight  the  question  of  food  for 
the  poorer  classes  became  a  serious  and  pressing 
problem.  The  German  armies,  in  their  onset 
toward  the  west,  had  swept  the  Belgian  coun- 
tryside bare;  the  products  of  the  farms  and 
gardens  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  city 
had  been  commandeered  for  the  use  of  the 
garrison,  and  the  spectre  of  starvation  was  al- 
ready beginning  to  cast  its  dread  shadow  over 
Brussels.  Mr.  Whitlock  acted  with  prompt- 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     79 

ness  and  decision.  He  sent  Americans  who 
had  volunteered  their  services  to  Holland  to 
purchase  foodstuffs,  and  at  the  same  time 
informed  the  German  commander  that  he  ex- 
pected these  foodstuffs  to  be  admitted  with- 
out hindrance.  The  German  replied  that  he 
could  not  comply  with  this  request  without 
first  communicating  with  his  Imperial  master, 
whereupon  he  was  told,  in  effect,  that  the 
American  Government  would  consider  him 
personally  responsible  if  the  foodstuffs  were 
delayed  or  diverted  for  military  use  and  a 
famine  ensued  in  consequence.  The  firmness  of 
Mr.  Whitlock's  attitude  had  its  effect,  for  at 
seven  o'clock  the  next  morning  he  received  word 
that  his  wishes  would  be  complied  with. 

As  a  result  of  the  German  occupation, 
Brussels,  with  its  six  hundred  thousand  inhabi- 
tants, was  as  completely  cut  off  from  communi- 
cation with  the  outside  world  as  though  it 
were  on  an  island  in  the  South  Pacific.  The 
postal,  telegraph  and  telephone  services  were 
suspended;  the  railways  were  blocked  with 
troop  trains  moving  westward;  the  roads  were 
filled  from  ditch  to  ditch  with  troops  ind  trans- 
port wagons;  and  so  tightly  were  flic  lines 


80         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

drawn  between  that  portion  of  Belgium 
occupied  by  the  Germans  and  that  still  held 
by  the  Belgians,  that  those  daring  souls  who 
attempted  to  slip  through  the  cordons  of 
sentries  did  so  at  peril  of  their  lives.  It 
sounds  almost  incredible  that  a  great  city 
could  be  so  effectually  isolated,  yet  so  it  was. 
Even  the  Cabinet  Ministers  and  other  officials 
who  had  accompanied  the  Government  in  its 
flight  to  Antwerp  were  unable  to  learn  what 
had  befallen  the  families  which  they  had  in 
many  cases  left  behind  them.  After  nearly 
three  weeks  had  passed  without  word  from  the 
American  Legation,  the  Department  of  State 
cabled  the  American  Consul-General  at  Antwerp 
that  some  means  of  communicating  with  Mr. 
Whitlock  must  be  found.  Happening  to  be 
in  the  Consulate  when  the  message  was  received, 
I  placed  my  services  and  my  car  at  the  disposal 
of  the  Consul-General,  who  promptly  accepted 
them.  Upon  learning  of  my  proposed  jaunt 
into  the  enemy's  lines,  a  friend,  Mr.  M.  Manly 
Whedbee,  the  director  of  the  Belgian  branch 
of  the  British-American  Tobacco  Company, 
offered  to  accompany  me,  and  as  he  is  as  cool- 
headed  and  courageous  and  companionable  as 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     81 

any  one  I  know,  and  as  he  knew  as  much  about 
driving  the  car  as  I  did — for  it  was  obviously 
impossible  to  take  my  Belgian  driver — I  was 
only  too  glad  to  have  him  along.  It  was,  in- 
deed, due  to  Mr.  Whedbee's  foresight  in 
taking  along  a  huge  quantity  of  cigarettes  for 
distribution  among  the  soldiers,  that  we  were 
able  to  escape  from  Brussels.  But  more  of  that 
episode  hereafter. 

When  the  Consul-General  asked  General 
Dufour,  the  military  Governor  of  Antwerp,  to 
issue  us  a  safe  conduct  through  the  Belgian 
lines,  that  gruff  old  soldier  at  first  refused  flatly, 
asserting  that,  as  the  German  outposts  had  been 
firing  on  cars  bearing  the  Red  Cross  flag,  there 
was  no  assurance  that  they  would  respect  one 
bearing  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  The  urgency 
of  the  matter  being  explained  to  him,  however, 
he  reluctantly  issued  the  necessary  laissez- 
passer,  though  intimating  quite  plainly  that  our 
mission  would  probably  end  in  providing  "more 
work  for  the  undertaker,  another  little  job 
for  the  casket-maker,"  and  that  he  washed  his 
hands  of  all  responsibility  for  our  fate.  But  by 
two  American  flags  mounted  on  the  wind-shield, 
and  the  explanatory  legends  "Service  Consu- 


82         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

laire  des  Etats-Unis  d'Amerique"  and  " Ameri- 
kanischer  Consular  dienst"  painted  in  staring 
letters  on  the  hood,  we  hoped,  however,  to  make 
it  quite  clear  to  Germans  and  Belgians  alike 
that  we  were  protected  by  the  international 
game-laws  so  far  as  shooting  us  was  concerned. 

Now,  the  disappointing  thing  about  our  trip 
was  that  we  didn't  encounter  any  Uhlans. 
Every  one  had  warned  us  so  repeatedly  about 
Uhlans  that  we  fully  expected  to  find  them, 
with  their  pennoned  lances  and  their  square- 
topped  schapkas,  lurking  behind  every  hedge, 
and  when  they  did  not  come  spurring  out  to 
intercept  us  we  were  greatly  disappointed. 
It  was  like  making  a  journey  to  the  polar  regions 
and  seeing  no  Esquimaux.  The  smart  young 
cavalry  officer  who  bade  us  good-by  at  the 
Belgian  outposts,  warned  us  to  keep  our  eyes 
open  for  them  and  said,  rather  mournfully,  I 
thought,  that  he  only  hoped  they  would  give 
us  time  to  explain  who  we  were  before  they 
opened  fire  on  us.  "They  are  such  hasty 
fellows,  these  Uhlans,"  said  he,  "always  shoot- 
ing first  and  making  inquiries  afterward." 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  only  Uhlan  we  saw  on 
the  entire  trip  was  riding  about  Brussels  in  a 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     83 

cab,  smoking  a  large  porcelain  pipe  and  with 
his  spurred  boots  resting  comfortably  on  the 
cushions. 

Though  we  crept  along  as  circumspectly  as 
a  motorist  who  knows  that  he  is  being  trailed 
by  a  motor-cycle  policeman,  peering  behind 
farmhouses  and  hedges  and  into  the  depths  of 
thickets  and  expecting  any  moment  to  hear  a 
gruff  command,  emphasized  by  the  bang  of  a 
carbine,  it  was  not  until  we  were  at  the  very 
outskirts  of  Aerschot  that  we  encountered  the 
Germans.  There  were  a  hundred  of  them  so 
cleverly  ambushed  behind  a  hedge  that  we 
would  never  have  suspected  their  presence  had 
we  not  caught  the  glint  of  sunlight  on  their 
rifle  barrels.  We  should  not  have  gotten  much 
nearer,  in  any  event,  for  they  had  a  wire  neatly 
strung  across  the  road  at  just  the  right  height 
to  take  us  under  the  chins.  When  we  were 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  hedge  an  officer 
in  a  trailing  gray  cloak  stepped  into  the  middle 
of  the  road  and  held  up  his  hand. 

"Halt!" 

I  jammed  on  the  brakes  so  suddenly  that  we 
nearly  went  through  the  wind-shield. 

"Get  out  of  the  automobile  and  stand  well 


84         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

away  from  it,"  the  officer  commanded  in 
German.  We  got  out  very  promptly. 

"One  of  you  advance  alone,  with  his  hands  up." 

I  advanced  alone,  but  not  with  my  hands 
up.  It  is  such  an  undignified  position.  I  had 
that  shivery  feeling  chasing  up  and  down  my 
spine  which  came  from  knowing  that  I  was 
covered  by  a  hundred  rifles,  and  that  if  I  made 
a  move  which  seemed  suspicious  to  the  men 
behind  those  rifles,  they  would  instantly  trans- 
form me  into  a  sieve. 

"Are  you  English?"  the  officer  demanded, 
none  too  pleasantly. 

"No,  American,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  he,  his  manner 
instantly  thawing.  "I  know  America  well," 
he  continued,  "Atlantic  City  and  Asbury 
Park  and  Niagara  Falls  and  Coney  Island.  I 
have  seen  all  of  your  famous  places." 

Imagine,  if  you  please,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  a  Belgian  highway,  surrounded  by  German 
soldiers  who  looked  as  though  they  would  rather 
shoot  you  than  not,  discussing  the  relative 
merits  of  the  hotels  at  Atlantic  City,  and  which 
had  the  best  dining-car  service,  the  Pennsyl- 
vania or  the  New  York  Central ! 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE    £5 

I  learned  from  the  officer,  who  proved  to  be 
an  exceedingly  agreeable  fellow,  that  had  we 
advanced  ten  feet  further  after  the  command 
to  halt  was  given,  we  should  probably  have 
been  planted  in  graves  dug  in  a  near-by  potato 
field,  as  only  an  hour  before  our  arrival  a 
Belgian  mitrailleuse  car  had  torn  down  the  road 
with  its  machine  gun  squirting  a  stream  of 
lead,  and  had  smashed  straight  through  the 
German  line,  killing  three  men  and  wounding 
a  dozen  others.  They  were  burying  them 
when  we  appeared.  When  our  big  gray  ma- 
chine hove  in  sight  they  not  unnaturally  took  us 
for  another  armored  car  and  prepared  to  give 
us  a  warm  reception.  It  was  a  lucky  thing  for 
us  that  our  brakes  worked  quickly. 

We  were  the  first  foreigners  to  see  Aerschot, 
or  rather  what  was  left  of  Aerschot  since  it 
had  been  sacked  and  burned  by  the  Germans. 
A  few  days  before  Aerschot  had  been  a  pros- 
perous and  happy  town  of  ten  thousand  people,  t 
When  we  saw  it  it  was  but  a  heap  of  smoking 
ruins,  garrisoned  by  a  battalion  of  German 
soldiers,  and  with  its  population  consisting  of 
half  a  hundred  white-faced  women.  In  many 
parts  of  the  world  I  have  seen  many  terrible 


86         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

and  revolting  things,  but  nothing  so  ghastly, 
so  horrifying  as  Aerschot.  Quite  two-thirds  of 
the  houses  had  been  burned  and  showed  un- 
mistakable signs  of  having  been  sacked  by 
a  maddened  soldiery  before  they  were  burned. 
Everywhere  were  the  ghastly  evidences.  Doors 
had  been  smashed  in  with  rifle-butts  and  boot- 
heels;  windows  had  been  broken;  furniture  had 
been  wantonly  destroyed;  pictures  had  been 
torn  from  the  walls;  mattresses  had  been  ripped 
open  with  bayonets  in  search  of  valuables; 
drawers  had  been  emptied  upon  the  floors; 
the  outer  walls  of  the  houses  were  spattered 
with  blood  and  pock-marked  with  bullets;  the 
sidewalks  were  slippery  with  broken  wine- 
bottles;  the  streets  were  strewn  with  women's 
clothing.  It  needed  no  one  to  tell  us  the 
details  of  that  orgy  of  blood  and  lust.  The 
story  was  so  plainly  written  that  any  one  could 
read  it. 

For  a  mile  we  drove  the  car  slowly  between 
the  blackened  walls  of  fire-gutted  buildings. 
This  was  no  accidental  conflagration,  mind  you, 
for  scattered  here  and  there  were  houses  which 
stood  undamaged  and  in  every  such  case  there 
was  scrawled  with  chalk  upon  their  doors 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     87 

"Gute  leute.  Nicht  zu  brennen.  Nicht  zu  plun- 
dern"  (Good  people.  Do  not  burn.  Do  not 
plunder.) 

The  Germans  went  about  the  work  of  house- 
burning  as  systematically  as  they  did  every- 
thing else.  They  had  various  devices  for 
starting  conflagrations,  all  of  them  effective. 
At  Aerschot  and  Louvain  they  broke  the 
windows  of  the  houses  and  threw  in  sticks 
which  had  been  soaked  in  oil  and  dipped  in 
sulphur.  Elsewhere  they  used  tiny  black 
tablets,  about  the  size  of  cough  lozenges,  made 
of  some  highly  inflammable  composition,  to 
which  they  touched  a  match.  At  Termonde, 
which  they  destroyed  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  inhabitants  had  evacuated  the  city  before 
their  arrival,  they  used  a  motor-car  equipped 
with  a  large  tank  for  petrol,  a  pump,  a  hose, 
and  a  spraying-nozzle.  The  car  was  run 
slowly  through  the  streets,  one  soldier  working 
the  pump  and  another  spraying  the  fronts  of 
the  houses.  Then  they  set  fire  to  them.  Oh, 
yes,  they  were  very  methodical  about  it  all, 
those  Germans. 

Despite  the  scowls  of  the  soldiers,  I  at- 
tempted to  talk  with  some  of  the  women  hud- 


88         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

died  in  front  of  a  bakery  waiting  for  a  dis- 
tribution of  bread,  but  the  poor  creatures 
were  too  terror-stricken  to  do  more  than  stare 
at  us  with  wide,  beseeching  eyes.  Those  eyes 
will  always  haunt  me.  I  wonder  if  they  do  not 
sometimes  haunt  the  Germans.  But  a  little 
episode  that  occurred  as  we  were  leaving  the 
city  did  more  than  anything  else  to  bring  home 
the  horror  of  it  all.  We  passed  a  little  girl  of 
nine  or  ten  and  I  stopped  the  car  to  ask  the 
way.  Instantly  she  held  both  hands  above  her 
head  and  began  to  scream  for  mercy.  When 
we  had  given  her  some  chocolate  and  money, 
and  had  assured  her  that  we  were  not  Germans, 
but  Americans  and  friends,  she  ran  like  a 
frightened  deer.  That  little  child,  with  her 
fright-wide  eyes  and  her  hands  raised  in  sup- 
plication, was  in  herself  a  terrible  indictment  of 
the  Germans. 

There  are,  as  might  be  expected,  two  versions 
of  the  happenings  which  precipitated  that 
night  of  horrors  in  Aerschot.  The  German 
version — I  had  it  from  the  German  com- 
mander himself — is  to  the  effect  that  after 
the  German  troops  had  entered  Aerschot,  the 
Chief  of  Staff  and  some  of  the  officers  were 


: 


*J    -o 


t)    7: 
*0      g 


O     <U 


P  'o      o 


s 

L-. 

O 

u 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     89 

asked  to  dinner  by  the  burgomaster.  While 
they  were  seated  at  the  table  the  son  of  the 
burgomaster,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  entered  the  room 
with  a  revolver  and  killed  the  Chief  of  Staff, 
whereupon,  as  though  at  a  prearranged  signal, 
the  townspeople  opened  fire  from  their  windows 
upon  the  troops.  What  followed — the  execu- 
tion of  the  burgomaster,  his  son,  and  several 
score  of  the  leading  townsmen,  the  giving  over 
of  the  women  to  a  lust-mad  soldiery,  the  sack- 
ing of  the  houses,  and  the  final  burning  of  the 
town — was  the  punishment  which  would  always 
be  meted  out  to  towns  whose  inhabitants  at- 
tacked German  soldiers. 

Now,  up  to  a  certain  point  the  Belgian 
version  agrees  with  the  German.  It  is  ad- 
mitted that  the  Germans  entered  the  town 
peaceably  enough,  that  the  German  Chief  of 
Staff  and  other  officers  accepted  the  hospitality 
of  the  burgomaster,  and  that,  while  they  were 
at  dinner,  the  burgomaster's  son  entered  the 
room  and  shot  the  Chief  of  Staff  dead  with  a 
revolver.  But — and  this  is  the  point  to  which 
the  German  story  makes  no  allusion — the  boy 
killed  the  Chief  of  Staff  in  defence  of  his  sister's 
honor.  It  is  claimed  that  toward  the  end  of 


90         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

the  meal  the  German  officer,  inflamed  with 
wine,  informed  the  burgomaster  that  he  in- 
tended to  pass  the  night  with  his  young 
and  beautiful  daughter,  whereupon  the  girl's 
brother  quietly  slipped  from  the  room  and, 
returning  a  moment  later,  put  a  sudden  end 
to  the  German's  career  with  an  automatic. 
What  the  real  truth  is  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps 
no  one  knows.  The  Germans  did  not  leave 
many  eye-witnesses  to  tell  the  story  of  what 
happened.  Piecing  together  the  stories  told 
by  those  who  did  survive  that  night  of  horror, 
we  know  that  scores  of  the  townspeople  were 
shot  down  in  cold  blood  and  that,  when  the 
firing  squads  could  not  do  the  work  of  slaughter 
fast  enough,  the  victims  were  lined  up  and  a 
machine  gun  was  turned  upon  them.  We 
know  that  young  girls  were  dragged  from  their 
homes  and  stripped  naked  and  violated  by 
soldiers — many  soldiers — in  the  public  square 
in  the  presence  of  officers.  We  know  that  both 
men  and  women  were  unspeakably  mutilated, 
that  children  were  bayoneted,  that  dwellings 
were  ransacked  and  looted,  and  that  finally, 
as  though  to  destroy  the  evidences  of  their 
horrid  work,  soldiers  went  from  house  to 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     91 

house  with  torches,  methodically  setting  fire 
to  them. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  repulsion  amounting 
almost  to  nausea  that  we  left  what  had  once 
been  Aerschot  behind  us.  The  road  leading  to 
Louvain  was  alive  with  soldiery,  and  we  were 
halted  every  few  minutes  by  German  patrols. 
Had  not  the  commanding  officer  in  Aerschot 
detailed  two  bicylists  to  accompany  us  I 
doubt  if  we  should  have  gotten  through. 
Whedbee  had  had  the  happy  idea  of  bringing 
along  a  thousand  packets  of  cigarettes — the 
tonneau  of  the  car  war  literally  filled  with  them 
— and  we  tossed  a  packet  to  every  German 
soldier  that  we  saw.  You  could  have  followed 
our  trail  for  thirty  miles  by  the  cigarettes  we 
left  behind  us.  As  it  turned  out,  they  were 
the  means  of  saving  us  from  being  detained 
within  the  German  lines.  From  the  -windows 
of  the  plundered  and  fire-blackened  houses 
which  lined  the  road  from  Aerschot  to  Louvain 
still  hung  white  flags  made  from  sheets  and 
table-cloths  and  pillow-cases — pathetic  appeals 
for  the  mercy  which  was  not  granted. 

Thanks  to  our  American  flags,  to  the  nature 
of  our  mission,  and  to  our  wholesale  distribu- 


92         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

tion  of  cigarettes,  we  were  passed  from 
outpost  to  outpost  and  from  regimental 
headquarters  to  regimental  headquarters  until 
we  reached  Louvain.  Here  we  came  upon 
another  scene  of  destruction  and  desolation. 
Nearly  half  the  city  was  in  ashes.  Most  of  the 
principal  streets  were  impassable  from  fallen 
masonry.  The  splendid  avenues  and  boule- 
vards were  lined  on  either  side  by  the  charred 
skeletons  of  what  had  once  been  handsome 
buildings.  The  fronts  of  many  of  the  houses 
were  smeared  with  crimson  stains.  In  com- 
parison to  its  size,  the  Germans  had  wrought 
more  wide-spread  destruction  in  Louvain  than 
did  the  earthquake  and  fire  combined  in  San 
Francisco.  The  looting  had  evidently  been 
unrestrained.  The  roads  for  miles  in  either 
direction  were  littered  with  furniture  and 
bedding  and  clothing.  Such  articles  as  the 
soldiers  could  not  carry  away  they  wantonly 
destroyed.  Hangings  had  been  torn  down, 
pictures  on  the  walls  had  been  smashed,  the 
contents  of  drawers  and  trunks  had  been 
emptied  into  the  streets,  literally  everything 
breakable  had  been  broken.  This  is  not  from 
hearsay,  remember;  I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes. 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     93 

And  the  amazing  feature  of  it  all  was  that 
among  the  Germans  there  seemed  to  be  no 
feeling  of  regret,  no  sense  of  shame.  Officers 
in  immaculate  uniforms  strolled  about  among 
the  ruins,  chatting  and  laughing  and  smoking. 
At  one  place  a  magnificent  mahogany  dining- 
table  had  been  dragged  into  the  middle  of  the 
road  and  about  it,  sprawled  in  carved  and 
tapestry-covered  chairs,  a  dozen  German 
infantrymen  were  drinking  beer. 

Just  as  there  are  two  versions  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  Aerschot,  so  there  are  two  versions, 
though  in  this  case  widely  different,  of  the 
events  which  led  up  to  the  destruction  of 
Louvain.  It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  to 
begin  with,  that  Louvain  was  not  destroyed 
by  bombardment  or  in  the  heat  of  battle,  for 
the  Germans  had  entered  it  unopposed,  and 
had  been  in  undisputed  possession  for  several 
days.  The  Germans  assert  that  a  conspiracy, 
fomented  by  the  burgomaster,  the  priests  and 
many  of  the  leading  citizens,  existed  among 
the  townspeople,  who  planned  to  suddenly  fall 
upon  and  exterminate  the  garrison.  They 
claim  that,  in  pursuance  of  this  plan,  on  the 
night  of  August  26,  the  inhabitants  opened  a 


94         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

murderous  fire  upon  the  unsuspecting  troops 
from  housetops,  doors  and  windows;  that  a 
fierce  street  battle  ensued,  in  which  a  number 
of  women  and  children  were  unfortunately 
killed  by  stray  bullets;  and  that,  in  retaliation 
for  this  act  of  treachery,  a  number  of  the 
inhabitants  were  executed  and  a  portion  of  the 
city  was  burned.  Notwithstanding  the  fact 
that,  as  soon  as  the  Germans  entered  the  city, 
they  searched  it  thoroughly  for  concealed 
weapons,  they  claim  that  the  townspeople  were 
not  only  well  supplied  with  rifles  and  ammuni- 
tion, but  that  they  even  opened  on  them  from 
their  windows  with  machine  guns.  Though 
it  seems  scarcely  probable  that  the  inhabitants 
of  Louvain  would  attempt  so  mad  an  enterprise 
as  to  attack  an  overwhelming  force  of  Germans 
—particularly  with  the  terrible  lesson  of 
Aerschot  still  fresh  in  their  minds — I  do  not 
care  to  express  any  opinion  as  to  the  truth  of 
the  German  assertions. 

The  Belgians  tell  quite  a  different  story. 
They  say  that,  as  the  result  of  a  successful 
Belgian  offensive  movement  to  the  south  of 
Malines,  the  German  troops  retreated  in  some- 
thing closely  akin  to  panic,  one  division  falling 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     95 

back,  after  nightfall,  upon  Louvain.  In  the 
inky  blackness  the  garrison,  mistaking  the 
approaching  troops  for  Belgians,  opened  a 
deadly  fire  upon  them.  When  the  mistake  was 
discovered  the  Germans,  partly  in  order  to 
cover  up  their  disastrous  blunder  and  partly  to 
vent  their  rage  and  chagrin,  turned  upon  the 
townspeople  in  a  paroxysm  of  fury.  A  scene  of 
indescribable  terror  ensued,  the  soldiers,  who 
had  broken  into  the  wine-shops  and  drunk 
themselves  into  a  state  of  frenzy,  practically 
running  amuck,  breaking  in  doors  and  shooting 
at  every  one  they  saw.  That  some  of  the 
citizens  snatched  up  such  weapons  as  came 
to  hand  and  defended  their  homes  and  their 
women  no  one  attempts  to  deny — but  this 
scattered  and  pitifully  ineffectual  resistance 
gave  the  Germans  the  very  excuse  they  were 
seeking.  The  citizens  had  attacked  them  and 
they  would  teach  the  citizens,  both  of  Louvain 
and  of  other  cities  which  they  might  enter,  a 
lasting  lesson.  They  did.  No  Belgian  will  ever 
forget — or  forgive — that  lesson.  The  orgy  of 
blood  and  lust  and  destruction  lasted  for  two 
days.  Several  American  correspondents,  among 
them  Mr.  Richard  Harding  Davis,  who  were 


96         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

being  taken  by  train  from  Brussels  to  Germany, 
and  who  were  held  for  some  hours  in  the  station 
at  Louvain  during  the  first  night's  massacre, 
have  vividly  described  the  horrors  which  they 
witnessed  from  their  car  window.  On  the 
second  day,  Mr.  Hugh  S.  Gibson,  secretary  of 
the  American  Legation  in  Brussels,  accompanied 
by  the  Swedish  and  Mexican  charges,  drove 
over  to  Louvain  in  a  taxicab.  Mr.  Gibson  told 
me  that  the  Germans  had  dragged  chairs  and 
a  dining-table  from  a  nearby  house  into  the 
middle  of  the  square  in  front  of  the  station  and 
that  some  officers,  already  considerably  the 
worse  for  drink,  insisted  that  the  three  diplo- 
matists join  them  in  a  bottle  of  wine.  And  this 
while  the  city  was  burning  and  rifles  were 
cracking,  and  the  dead  bodies  of  men  and  women 
lay  sprawled  in  the  streets ! 

If  Belgium  wishes  to  keep  alive  in  the  minds 
of  her  people  the  recollection  of  German  mili- 
tary barbarism,  if  she  desires  to  inculcate  the 
coming  generations  with  the  horrors  and 
miseries  of  war,  if  she  would  perpetuate  the 
memories  of  the  innocent  townspeople  who 
were  slaughtered  because  they  were  Belgians, 
then  she  can  effectually  do  it  by  preserving  the 


_  fa 


II 


The  words,  "Giite  leute.    Nicht  zu  pliindern"  ("Good  people. 

Do  not  plunder"),  were  scrawled  on  the  door  of  this  house 

in  Louvain — 


— but  there  were  no  words  on  this  house. 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     97 

ruins  of  Aerschot  and  Louvain,  just  as  the  ruins 
of  Pompeii  are  preserved.  Fence  in  these 
desolated  cities;  leave  the  shattered  doors  and 
the  broken  furniture  as  they  are;  let  the  bullet 
marks  and  the  blood-stains  remain,  and  it  will 
do  more  than  all  the  sermons  that  can  be 
preached,  than  all  the  pictures  that  can  be 
painted,  than  all  the  books  that  can  be  written, 
to  drive  home  a  realization  of  what  is  meant  by 
that  dreadful  thing  called  War. 

It  is  in  the  neighborhood  of  twenty  miles 
from  Louvain  to  Brussels,  and  our  car  with  its 
fluttering  flags  sped  between  lines  of  cheer- 
ing people  all  the  way.  Men  stood  by  the 
roadside  with  uncovered  heads  as  they  saw  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  whirl  by;  women  waved  their 
handkerchiefs  while  tears  coursed  down  their 
cheeks.  As  we  neared  Brussels  news  of  our 
coming  spread,  and  soon  we  were  passing 
between  solid  walls  of  Belgians  who  waved  hats 
and  canes  and  handkerchiefs  and  screamed, 
"Vive  I'Amerique!  Vive  I'Amerique!"  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  say  that  a  lump  came  in  my 
throat  and  tears  dimmed  my  eyes.  To  these 
helpless,  homeless,  hopeless  people,  the  red- 


98         FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

i 
white-andrblue  banner  that  streamed  from  our 

wind-shield  really  was  a  flag  of  the  free. 

Brussels  we  found  as  quiet  and  orderly  as 
Boston  on  a  Sunday  morning.  So  far  as 
street  scenes  went  we  might  have  been  in 
Berlin.  German  officers  and  soldiers  were 
scattered  everywhere,  lounging  at  the  little 
iron  tables  in  front  of  the  cafes,  or  dining  in  the 
restaurants  or  strolling  along  the  tree-shaded 
boulevards  as  unconcernedly  and  matter-of- 
factly  as  though  they  were  in  the  Fatherland. 
Many  of  the  officers  had  brought  high,  red- 
wheeled  dog-carts  with  them,  and  were  pleasure- 
driving  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city;  others, 
accompanied  by  women  who  may  or  may  not 
have  been  their  wives,  were  picnicking  in  the 
Bois.  Brussels  had  become,  to  all  outward 
appearances  at  least,  a  German  city.  German 
flags  flaunted  defiantly  from  the  roofs  of  the 
public  buildings,  several  of  which,  including  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  the 
Cathedral,  were  reported  to  have  been  mined. 
In  the  whole  of  the  great  city  not  a  single 
Belgian  flag  was  to  be  seen.  The  Belgian  police 
were  still  performing  their  routine  duties  under 
•German  direction.  The  royal  palace  had  been 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE     99 

converted  into  a  hospital  for  German  wounded. 
The  Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs  was  occupied 
by  the  German  General  Staff.  The  walls  and 
hoardings  were  plastered  with  proclamations 
signed  by  the  military  governor  warning  the 
inhabitants  of  the  penalties  which  they  would 
incur  should  they  molest  the  German  troops. 
The  great  square  in  front  of  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
which  was  being  used  as  a  barracks,  was 
guarded  by  a  line  of  sentries,  and  no  one  but 
Germans  in  uniform  were  permitted  to  cross  it. 
One  other  person  did  cross  it,  however,  Ger- 
man regulations  and  sentries  notwithstanding. 
Whedbee  and  I  were  lunching  on  Sunday  noon 
in  the  front  of  the  Palace  Hotel,  when  a  big 
limousine  flying  the  American  flag  drew  up  on 
the  other  side  of  the  square  and  Mr.  Julius  Van 
Hee,  the  American  Vice-Consul  at  Ghent, 
jumped  out.  He  caught  sight  of  us  at  the  same 
moment  that  we  saw  him  and  started  across  the 
square  toward  us.  He  had  not  gone  a  dozen 
paces  before  a  sentry  levelled  his  rifle  and 
gruffly  commanded  him  to  halt. 

"Go  back!"  shouted  the  sentry.  "To 
walk  across  the  square  forbidden  is." 

"Go  to  the  devil !"    shouted  back  Van  Hee. 


zoo        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

"And   stop  pointing  that   gun   at  me,  or  I'll 
come  over  and   knock  that  spiked  helmet  of 
yours  off.     I'm  American,  and  I've  more  right ' 
here  than  you  have." 

This  latter  argument  being  obviously  un- 
answerable, the  befuddled  sentry  saw  nothing 
for  it  but  to  let  him  pass. 

Van  Hee  had  come  to  Brussels,  he  told  us,  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining  some  vaccine,  as  the 
supply  in  Ghent  was  running  short,  and  the 
authorities  were  fearful  of  an  epidemic.  He  also 
brought  with  him  a  package  of  letters  from  the 
German  officers,  many  of  them  of  distinguished 
families,  who  had  been  captured  by  the  Belgians 
and  were  imprisoned  at  Bruges.  When  Van 
Hee  had  obtained  his  vaccine,  he  called  on 
General  von  Ludewitz  and  requested  a  safe- 
conduct  back  to  Ghent. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Van  Hee,"  said  the  general, 
who  had  married  an  American  and  spoke 
English  like  a  New  Yorker,  "but  there's 
nothing  doing.  We  can't  permit  any  one  to 
leave  Brussels  at  present.  Perhaps  in  a  few 
days " 

"A  few  days  won't  do,  General,"  Van  Hee 
interrupted,  "I  must  go  back  to-day,  at  once." 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE    101 

"I  regret  to  say  that  for  the  time  being  it  is 
quite  impossible,"  said  the  general  firmly. 

"I  have  here,"  said  Van  Hee,  displaying  the 
packet,  "a  large  number  of  letters  from  the 
German  officers  who  are  imprisoned  in  Bel- 
gium. If  I  don't  get  the  pass  you  don't  get 
these  letters." 

"You  hold  a  winning  hand,  Mr.  Van  Hee," 
said  the  general,  laughing,  as  he  reached  for 
pen  and  paper. 

But  when  Whedbee  and  I  were  ready  to 
return  to  Antwerp  it  was  a  different  matter. 
The  German  authorities,  though  scrupulously 
polite,  were  adamantine  in  their  refusal  to 
permit  us  to  pass  through  the  German  lines. 
And  we  held  no  cards,  as  did  Van  Hee,  with 
which  to  play  diplomatic  poker.  So  we  were 
compelled  to  bluff.  Telling  the  German  com- 
mander that  we  would  call  on  him  again,  we 
climbed  into  the  car  and  quietly  left  the  city 
by  the  same  route  we  had  followed  upon  enter- 
ing it  the  preceding  day.  All  along  the  road 
we  found  soldiers  smoking  the  cigarettes  we 
had  distributed  to  them.  Instead  of  stopping 
us  and  demanding  to  see  our  papers  they 
waved  their  hands  cheerily  and  called,  " Auj 


FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

wiedersehn!  "  As  we  knew  that  we  could  not 
get  through  Louvain  without  being  stopped, 
we  drove  boldly  up  to  headquarters  and  asked 
the  general  commanding  the  division  if  he 
would  detail  a  staff-officer  to  accompany  us  to 
the  outer  lines.  (There  seemed  no  need  of 
mentioning  the  fact  that  we  had  no  passes.) 
The  general  said,  with  profuse  apologies,  that 
he  had  no  officer  available  at  the  moment,  but 
hoped  that  a  sergeant  would  do.  We  carried 
the  sergeant  with  us  as  far  as1  Aerschot,  distrib- 
uting along  the  way  what  remained  of  our 
cigarettes.  At  Aerschot  we  were  detained  for 
nearly  an  hour,  as  the  officer  who  had  visited 
Atlantic  City,  Niagara  Falls,  and  Coney  Island 
insisted  on  our  waiting  while  he  sent  for 
another  officer  who,  until  the  outbreak  of  the 
war,  had  lived  in  Chicago.  We  tried  not  to 
show  our  impatience  at  the  delay,  but  our  hair 
stood  on  end  every  time  a  telephone  bell 
tinkled.  We  were  afraid  that  the  staff  in 
Brussels,  learning  of  our  unauthorized  depar- 
ture, would  telephone  to  the  outposts  to  stop 
us.  It  was  with  a  heartfelt  sigh  of  relief  that 
we  finally  shook  hands  with  our  hosts  and  left 
ruined  Aerschot  behind  us.  I  opened  up  the 


UNDER  THE  GERMAN  EAGLE    103 

throttle,  and  the  big  car  fled  down  the  long, 
straight  road  which  led  to  the  Belgian  lines 
like  a  hunted  cat  on  the  top  of  a  back-yard 
fence. 


WITH  THE   SPIKED  HELMETS 

IT  was  really  a  Pittsburgh  chauffeur  who 
was  primarily  responsible  for  my  being  in- 
vited to  dine  with  the  commander  of  the 
Ninth  German  Army.  The  chauffeur's  name 
was  William  Van  Calck  and  his  employer  was  a 
gentleman  who  had  amassed  several  millions 
manufacturing  hats  in  the  Smoky  City.  When 
war  was  declared  the  hat  manufacturer  and 
his  family  were  motoring  in  Austria,  with 
Van  Calck  at  the  wheel  of  the  car.  The  car 
being  a  large  and  powerful  one,  it  was  promptly 
commandeered  by  the  Austrian  military  au- 
thorities; the  hat  manufacturer  and  his  family, 
thus  dumped  unceremoniously  by  the  road- 
side, made  their  way  as  best  they  could  to 
England;  and  Van  Calck,  who  was  a  Belgian 
by  birth,  though  a  naturalized  American, 
enlisted  in  the  Belgian  army  and  was  detailed 
to  drive  one  of  the  armored  motor-cars  which 
so  effectively  harassed  the  enemy  during  the 
early  part  of  the  campaign  in  Flanders.  Now 

if  Van  Calck  hadn't  come  tearing  into  Ghent 

104 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS   105 

in  his  wheeled  fortress  on  a  sunny  September 
morning  he  wouldn't  have  come  upon  a  motor- 
car containing  two  German  soldiers  who  had 
lost  their  way;  if  he  had  not  met  them,  the 
two  Germans  would  not  have  been  wounded 
in  the  dramatic  encounter  which  ensued;  if 
the  Germans  had  not  been  wounded  it  would 
not  have  been  necessary  for  Mr.  Julius  Van  Hee, 
the  American  Vice-Consul,  to  pay  a  hurried 
visit  to  General  von  Boehn,  the  German 
commander,  to  explain  that  the  people  of 
Ghent  were  not  responsible  for  the  affair  and 
to  beg  that  no  retaliatory  measures  be  taken 
against  the  city;  if  Mr.  Van  Hee  had  not 
visited  General  von  Boehn  the  question  of  the 
attitude  of  the  American  Press  would  not  have 
come  up  for  discussion;  and  if  it  had  not  been 
discussed,  General  von  Boehn  would  not  have 
sent  me  an  invitati6n  through  Mr.  Van  Hee 
to  dine  with  him  at  his  headquarters  and  hear 
the  German  side  of  the  question. 

But  perhaps  I  had  better  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning. On  September  8,  then,  the  great  Ger- 
man army  which  was  moving  from  Brussels 
on  France  was  within  a  few  miles  of  Ghent. 
In  the  hope  of  inducing  the  Germans  not  to 


io6       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

enter  the  city,  whose  large  and  turbulent  work- 
ing population  would,  it  was  feared,  cause 
trouble  in  case  of  a  military  occupation,  the 
burgomaster  went  out  to  confer  with  the  Ger- 
man commander.  An  agreement  was  finally  ar- 
rived at  whereby  the  Germans  consented  to 
march  around  Ghent  if  certain  requirements 
were  complied  with.  These  were  that  no  Bel- 
gian troops  should  occupy  the  city,  that  the 
Garde  Civique  should  be  disarmed  and  their 
weapons  surrendered,  and  that  the  municipality 
should  supply  the  German  forces  with  specified 
quantities  of  provisions  and  other  supplies — the 
chief  item,  by  the  way,  being  a  hundred  thou- 
sand cigars. 

The  burgomaster  had  not  been  back  an  hour 
when  a  military  motor-car  containing  two 
armed  German  soldiers  appeared  in  the  city 
streets.  It  transpired  afterward  that  they 
had  been  sent  out  to  purchase  medical  supplies 
and,  losing  their  way,  had  entered  Ghent  by 
mistake.  At  almost  the  same  moment  that 
the  German  car  entered  the  city  from  the 
south  a  Belgian  armored  motor-car,  armed 
with  a  machine  gun  and  with  a  crew  of  three 
men  and  driven  by  the  former  Pittsburgh 
chauffeur,  entered  from  the  east  on  a  scouting 


107 

expedition.  The  two  cars,  both  travelling  at 
high  speed,  encountered  each  other  at  the 
head  of  the  Rue  de  1'Agneau,  directly  in  front 
of  the  American  Consulate.  Vice-Consul  Van 
Hee,  standing  in  the  doorway,  was  an  eye- 
witness of  what  followed. 

The  Germans,  taken  completely  by  surprise 
at  the  sight  of  the  grim  war  car  in  its  coat  of 
elephant-gray  bearing  down  upon  them,  threw 
on  their  power  and  attempted  to  escape,  the 
man  sitting  beside  the  driver  opening  an 
ineffectual  fire  with  his  carbine.  Regardless 
of  the  fact  that  the  sidewalks  were  crowded 
with  spectators,  the  Belgians  opened  on  the 
fleeing  Germans  with  their  machine  gun,  which 
spurted  lead  as  a  garden  hose  spurts  water. 
Van  Calck,  fearing  that  the  Germans  might 
escape,  swerved  his  powerful  car  against  the 
German  machine  precisely  as  a  polo  player 
"rides  off"  his  opponent,  the  machine  gun 
never  ceasing  its  angry  snarl.  An  instant  later 
the  driver  of  the  German  car  dropped  forward 
over  his  steering-wheel  with  blood  gushing  from 
a  bullet  wound  in  the  head,  while  his  com- 
panion, also  badly  wounded,  threw  up  both 
hands  in  token  of  surrender. 


io8        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

Vice-Consul  Van  Hee  instantly  recognized 
the  extremely  grave  consequences  which  might 
result  to  Ghent  from  this  encounter,  which 
had  taken  place  within  an  hour  after  the 
burgomaster  had  assured  the  German  com- 
mander that  there  were  no  Belgian  soldiers  in 
the  city.  Now,  Mr.  Julius  Van  Hee  is  what 
is  popularly  known  in  the  United  States  as 
"a  live  wire."  He  is  a  shirt-sleeve  diplomatist 
who,  if  he  thought  the  occasion  warranted  it, 
would  not  hesitate  to  conduct  diplomatic  ne- 
gotiations in  his  nightshirt.  Appreciating  that 
as  a  result  of  this  attack  on  German  soldiers, 
which  the  Germans  would  probably  charac- 
terize as  treachery,  Ghent  stood  in  imminent 
danger  of  meeting  the  terrible  fate  of  its  sister 
cities  of  Aerschot  and  Louvain,  which  were 
sacked  and  burned  on  no  greater  provoca- 
tion, Mr.  Van  Hee  jumped  into  his  car  and 
sought  the  burgomaster,  whom  he  urged  to 
accompany  him  without  an  instant's  delay , 
to  German  headquarters.  The  burgomaster, 
who  had  visions  of  being  sent  to  Germany  as 
a  hostage,  at  first  demurred;  but  Van  Hee, 
disregarding  his  protestations,  handed  him  his 
hat,  hustled  him  into  the  car,  and  ordered  the 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    109 

chauffeur  to  drive  as  though  the  Uhlans  were 
behind  him. 

They  found  General  von  Boehn  and  his 
'  staff  quartered  in  a  chateau  a  few  miles  outside 
the  city.  At  first  the  German  commander 
was  furious  with  anger  and  threatened  Ghent 
with  the  same  punishment  he  had  meted  out 
to  other  cities  where  Germans  had  been  fired 
on.  Van  Hee  took  a  very  firm  stand,  however. 
He  reminded  the  general  that  Americans  have 
a  great  sentimental  interest  in  Ghent  because 
of  the  treaty  of  peace  between  England  and 
the  United  States  which  was  signed  there  a 
century  ago,  and  he  warned  him  that  the 
burning  of  the  city  would  do  more  than  any- 
thing else  to  lose  the  Germans  the  sympathy 
of  the  American  people. 

"If  you  will  give  me  your  personal  word," 
said  the  general  finally,  "that  there  will  be 
no  further  attacks  upon  Germans  who  may 
enter  the  city,  and  that  the  wounded  soldiers 
will  be  taken  under  American  protection  and 
sent  to  Brussels  by  the  American  consular 
authorities  when  they  have  recovered,  I  will 
agree  to  spare  Ghent  and  will  not  even  demand 
a  money  indemnity." 


i  io        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

In  the  course  of  the  informal  conversation 
which  followed,  General  von  Boehn  remarked 
that  copies  of  American  papers  containing 
articles  by  E.  Alexander  Powell,  criticising  the 
Germans'  treatment  of  the  Belgian  civil  popu- 
lation, had  come  to  his  attention,  and  he 
regretted  that  he  could  not  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  talk  with  their  author  and  give  him 
the  German  version  of  the  incidents  in  ques- 
tion. Mr.  Van  Hee  said  that,  by  a  curious 
coincidence,  I  had  arrived  in  Ghent  that  very 
morning,  whereupon  the  general  asked  him 
to  bring  me  out  to  dinner  on  the  following  day 
and  issued  a  safe-conduct  through  the  German 
lines  for  the  purpose. 

We  started  early  the  next  morning.  As 
there  was  some  doubt  about  the  propriety  of 
my  taking  a  Belgian  military  driver  into  the 
German  lines  I  drove  the  car  myself.  And, 
though  nothing  was  said  about  a  photographer, 
I  took  with  me  Donald  Thompson.  Before 
we  passed  the  city  limits  of  Ghent  things  be- 
gan to  happen.  Entering  a  street  which  leads 
through  a  district  inhabited  by  the  working 
classes,  we  suddenly  found  our  way  barred  by 
a  mob  of  several  thousand  excited  Flemings. 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    in 

Above  a  sea  of  threatening  arms  and  bran- 
dished sticks  and  angry  faces  rose  the  figures 
of  two  German  soldiers,  with  carbines  slung 
across  their  backs,  mounted  on  work  horses 
which  they  had  evidently  hastily  unharnessed 
from  a  wagon.  Like  their  unfortunate  com- 
rades of  the  motor-car  episode,  they  too  had 
strayed  into  the  city  by  mistake.  As  we 
approached  the  crowd  made  a  concerted  rush 
for  them.  A  blast  from  my  siren  opened  a 
lane  for  us,  however,  and  I  drove  the  car 
alongside  the  terrified  Germans. 

"Quick!"  shouted  Van  Hee  in  German. 
"Off  your  horses  and  into  the  car!  Hide 
your  rifles !  Take  off  your  helmets !  Sit  on 
the  floor  and  keep  out  of  sight !" 

The  mob,  seeing  its  prey  escaping,  surged 
about  us  with  a  roar.  For  a  moment  things 
looked  very  ugly.  Van  Hee  jumped  on  the 
seat. 

"I  am  the  American  Consul!"  he  shouted. 
"These  men  are  under  my  protection !  You 
are  civilians,  attacking  German  soldiers  in 
uniform.  If  they  are  harmed  your  city  will 
be  burned  about  your  ears." 

At  that  moment  a  burly  Belgian  shouldered 


ii2       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

his  way  through  the  crowd  and,  leaping  on 
the  running-board,  levelled  a  revolver  at  the 
Germans  cowering  in  the  tonneau.  Quick  as 
thought  Thompson  knocked  up  the  man's 
hand,  and  at  the  same  instant  I  threw  on  the 
power.  The  big  car  leaped  forward  and  the 
mob  scattered  before  it.  It  was  a  close  call 
for  every  one  concerned,  but  a  much  closer 
call  for  Ghent;  for  had  those  German  soldiers 
been  murdered  by  civilians  in  the  city  streets 
no  power  on  earth  could  have  saved  the  city 
from  German  vengeance.  General  von  Boehn 
told  me  so  himself. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  playlets  follow  each 
other  in  quick  succession  on  a  stage,  the  scene 
changed  from  near  tragedy  to  screaming  farce. 
As  we  came  thundering  into  the  little  town 
of  Sotteghem,  which  is  the  Sleepy  Hollow  of 
Belgium,  we  saw,  rising  from  the  middle  of 
the  town  square,  a  pyramid,  at  least  ten  feet 
high,  of  wardrobe  trunks,  steamer  trunks,  bags, 
and  suitcases.  From  the  summit  of  this 
extraordinary  monument  floated  a  huge  Ameri- 
can flag.  As  our  car  came  to  a  halt  there  rose 
a  chorus  of  exclamations  in  all  the  dialects 
between  Maine  and  California,  and  from  the 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    113 

door  of  a  near-by  cafe  came  pouring  a  flood 
of  Americans.  They  proved  to  be  a  lost 
detachment  of  that  great  army  of  tourists 
which,  at  the  beginning  of  hostilities,  started 
on  its  mad  retreat  for  the  coast,  leaving  Europe 
strewn  with  their  belongings.  This  particular 
detachment  had  been  cut  off  in  Brussels  by 
the  tide  of  German  invasion,  and,  as  food 
supplies  were  running  short,  they  determined 
to  make  a  dash — perhaps  crawl  would  be  a 
better  word — for  Ostend,  making  the  journey 
in  two  lumbering  farm  wagons.  On  reaching 
Sotteghem,  however,  the  Belgian  drivers, 
hearing  that  the  Germans  were  approaching, 
refused  to  go  farther  and  unceremoniously 
dumped  their  passengers  in  the  town  square. 
When  we  arrived  they  had  been  there  for  a 
day  and  a  night  and  had  begun  to  think  that 
it  was  to  be  their  future  home.  It  was  what 
might  be  termed  a  mixed  assemblage,  including 
several  women  of  wealth  and  fashion  who  had 
been  motoring  on  the  Continent  and  had  had 
their  cars  taken  from  them,  two  prim  school- 
teachers from  Brooklyn,  a  mine  owner  from 
West  Virginia,  a  Pennsylvania  Quaker,  and  a 
quartet  of  professional  tango  dancers — artists, 


n4        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

they  called  themselves — who  had  been  doing 
a  "turn"  at  a  Brussels  music-hall  when  the 
war  suddenly  ended  their  engagement.  Van 
Hee  and  I  skirmished  about  and,  after  much' 
argument,  succeeded  in  hiring  two  farm  carts 
to  transport  the  fugitives  to  Ghent.  For 
the  thirty-mile  journey  the  thrifty  peasants 
modestly  demanded  four  hundred  francs — 
and  got  it.  The  last  I  saw  of  my  compatriots 
they  were  perched  on  top  of  their  luggage 
piled  high  on  two  creaking  carts,  rumbling 
down  the  road  to  Ghent  with  their  huge  flag 
flying  above  them.  They  were  singing  at  the 
top  of  their  voices,  "We'll  Never  Go  There 
Any  More." 

Half  a  mile  or  so  out  of  Sotteghem  our  road 
debouched  into  the  great  highway  which  leads 
through  Lille  to  Paris,  and  we  suddenly  found 
ourselves  in  the  midst  of  the  German  army. 
It  was  a  sight  never  to  be  forgotten.  Far  as 
the  eye  could  see  stretched  solid  columns  of 
marching  men,  pressing  westward,  ever  west- 
ward. The  army  was  advancing  in  three 
mighty  columns  along  three  parallel  roads, 
the  dense  masses  of  moving  men  in  their 
elusive  gray-green  uniforms  looking  for  all  the 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    115 

world  like  three  monstrous  serpents  crawling 
across  the  countryside. 

The  American  flags  which  fluttered  from 
'our  wind-shield  proved  a  passport  in  them- 
selves, and  as  we  approached  the  close-locked 
ranks  parted  to  let  us  pass,  and  then  closed 
in  behind  us.  For  five  solid  hours,  travelling 
always  at  express-train  speed,  we  motored 
between  walls  of  marching  men.  In  time  the 
constant  shuffle  of  boots  and  the  rhythmic 
swing  of  gray-clad  arms  and  shoulders  grew 
maddening,  and  I  became  obsessed  with  the 
fear  that  I  would  send  the  car  ploughing  into 
the  human  hedge  on  either  side.  It  seemed 
that  the  interminable  ranks  would  never  end, 
and  so  far  as  we  were  concerned  they  never 
did  end,  for  we  never  saw  the  head  of  that 
mighty  column.  We  passed  regiment  after 
regiment,  brigade  after  brigade  of  infantry; 
then  Hussars,  Cuirassiers,  Uhlans,  field-bat- 
teries, more  infantry,  more  field-guns,  ambu- 
lances  with  staring  red  crosses  painted  on  their 
canvas  tops,  then  gigantic  siege-guns,  their 
grim  muzzles  pointing  skyward,  each  drawn  by 
thirty  straining  horses;  engineers,  sappers  and 
miners  with  picks  and  spades,  pontoon  wagons, 


n6       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

carts  piled  high  with  what  looked  like  masses 
of  yellow  silk  but  which  proved  to  be  balloons, 
bicyclists  with  carbines  slung  upon  their  backs, 
hunter  fashion,  aeroplane  outfits,  bearded  and 
*  spectacled  doctors  of  the  medical  corps,  ar- 
mored motor-cars  with  curved  steel  rails  above 
them  as  a  protection  against  the  wires  which 
the  Belgians  were  in  the  habit  of  stringing  across 
the  roads,  battery  after  battery  of  pompoms 
(as  the  quick-firers  are  descriptively  called),  and 
after  them  more  batteries  of  spidery-looking, 
lean-barrelled  machine  guns,  more  Uhlans — 
the  sunlight  gleaming  on  their  lance  tips  and 
the  breeze  fluttering  their  pennons  into  a  black- 
and-white  cloud  above  them,  and  then  infantry 
in  spiked  and  linen-covered  helmets,  more 
infantry  and  still  more  infantry — all  sweeping 
by,  irresistibly  as  a  mighty  river,  with  their 
faces  turned  towards  France. 

This  was  the  Ninth  Field  Army,  composed 
of  the  very  flower  of  the  German  Empire, 
including  the  magnificent  troops  of  the  Impe- 
rial Guard.  It  was  first  and  last  a  fighting 
army.  The  men  were  all  young,  and  they 
struck  me  as  being  as  keen  as  razors  and  as 
hard  as  nails.  Their  equipment  was  the  acme 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    117 

of  efficiency,  serviceability,  and  comfort.  The 
color  of  their  uniforms  was  better  than  any 
of  the  shades  of  khaki;  a  hundred  yards  away 
a  regiment  seemed  to  melt  into  the  landscape. 
Their  boots,  of  brown  leather  made  after  the 
Russian  pattern,  were  particularly  good — so 
good,  in  fact,  that  time  and  again  I  have  seen 
Belgian  peasants  risk  their  lives  on  the  battle- 
field to  strip  German  corpses  of  their  foot- 
gear. Their  horses  were  magnificent — well- 
fed  and  well-cared-for.  I  have  never  seen 
better.  I  was  particularly  impressed  by  the 
size  and  number  of  the  field-guns  of  the 
Imperial  Guard,  which  are  of  considerably 
larger  caliber  than  any  used  in  the  American 
army.  Most  interesting  of  all,  however,  were 
five  gigantic  howitzers,  each  drawn  by  sixteen 
pairs  of  horses,  which  at  a  distance  of  a  dozen 
miles  can  tear  a  city  to  pieces.  I  would  have 
been  still  more  interested  in  them,  I  suppose, 
could  I  have  known  that,  weeks  later,  they  ' 
were  to  send  the  city  in  which  I  was  living 
crashing  about  my  ears. 

I  was  impressed  with  the  fact  that  every 
contingency  seemed  to  have  been  provided  for. 
Nothing  was  left  to  chance.  The  maps  of 


ii8        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

Belgium,  with  which  every  officer  and  non- 
commissioned officer  was  provided,  were  the 
finest  examples  of  topography  I  have  ever  seen. 
Every  path,  every  farm-building,  every  clump 
of  trees  was  denoted.  They  were  as  good,  if 
not  better,  than  the  maps  used  by  the  Belgian 
General  Staff.  At  one  place  I  saw  a  huge  army 
wagon  containing  a  complete  printing-press 
drawn  up  beside  the  road,  and  the  morning 
edition  of  the  Deutsche  Krieger  Zeitung  was 
being  printed  and  distributed  to  the  passing 
soldiery.  Its  news  matter  consisted  mainly  of 
accounts  of  German  victories  of  which  I  had 
never  heard,  but  which  seemed  to  greatly  cheer 
the  men.  Field  kitchens,  with  smoke  pour- 
ing from  their  stovepipes,  rumbled  down  the 
lines,  the  white-aproned  cooks  clinging  to  the 
rear  as  the  stoker  clings  to  a  fire-engine,  serving 
hot  soup  and  coffee  to  the  marching  men,  who 
held  out  their  tin  cups  to  be  filled  without 
leaving  the  column.  There  were  wagons 
filled  with  army  cobblers,  mending  the  soldiers' 
shoes,  sitting  cross-legged  oja  their  benches, 
sewing  away  as  industriously  and  as  uncon- 
cernedly as  though  they  were  back  in  their 
little  shops  in  the  Fatherland.  Other  wagons, 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS     119 

to  all  appearances  ordinary  two-wheeled  farm 
carts,  contained  "nests"  of  nine  machine  guns 
which  could  instantly  be  brought  into  action. 
The  medical  corps  was  magnificent;  as  busi- 
nesslike, as  completely  equipped,  and  as  efficient 
as  a  great  city  hospital — as,  indeed,  it  should 
be,  for  no  hospital  ever  built  was  called  upon 
to  treat  so  many  emergency  cases.  One  section 
of  the  medical  corps  consisted  wholly  of  pedi- 
curists,  who  examined  and  treated  the  feet 
of  the  men.  If  a  German  soldier  has  even  a 
suspicion  of  a  corn  or  a  bunion  or  a  chafed 
heel  and  does  not  instantly  report  to  the 
regimental  pedicurist  for  treatment  he  is 
subject  to  severe  punishment.  He  is  not 
permitted  to  neglect  his  feet — or  for  that 
matter  his  teeth,  or  any  other  portion  of  his 
body — because  his  feet  do  not  belong  to  him 
but  to  the  Kaiser,  and  the  Kaiser  expects 
those  feet  kept  in  condition  to  perform  long 
and  arduous  marches  and  to  fight  his  battles. 
At  one  cross-roads  I  saw  a  soldier  with  a  horse- 
clipping  machine.  An  officer  stood  beside 
him  and  closely  scanned  the  heads  of  the  passing 
men.  Whenever  he  spied  a  soldier  whose  hair 
was  a  fraction  of  an  inch  too  long,  that  soldier 


120       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

was  called  out  of  the  ranks,  the  clipper  was 
run  over  his  head  as  quickly  and  dexterously 
as  an  expert  shearer  fleeces  sheep,  and  then 
the  man,  his  hair  once  more  too  short  to  harbor 
dirt,  ran  to  rejoin  his  company.  They  must 
have  cut  the  hair  of  a  hundred  men  an  hour. 
It  was  a  fascinating  performance.  Men  on 
bicycles,  with  coils  of  insulated  wire  slung  on 
reels  between  them,  strung  field-telephones 
from  tree  to  tree,  so  that  the  general  com- 
manding could  converse  with  any  part  of 
the  fifty-mile-long  column.  The  whole  army 
never  slept.  When  half  was  resting  the  other 
half  was  advancing.  The  German  soldier  is 
treated  as  a  valuable  machine,  which  must  be 
speeded  up  to  the  highest  possible  efficiency. 
Therefore  he  is  well-fed,  well-shod,  well- 
clothed — and  worked  as  a  negro  teamster  works 
a  mule.  Only  men  who  are  well-cared-for 
can  march  thirty-five  miles  a  day,  week  in 
and  week  out.  Only  once  did  I  see  a  man 
ill  treated.  A  sentry  on  duty  in  front  of  the 
general  headquarters  failed  to  salute  an  officer 
with  sufficient  promptness,  whereupon  the 
officer  lashed  him  again  and  again  across  the 
face  with  a  riding-whip.  Though  welts  rose 


r 


so 

o 


I 

y 

o 


o 


L 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    121 

at  every  blow,  the  soldier  stood  rigidly  at 
attention  and  never  quivered.  It  was  not  a 
pleasant  thing  to  witness.  Had  it  been  a 
British  or  an  American  soldier  who  was  thus 
treated  there  would  have  been  an  officer's 
funeral  the  next  morning. 

As  we  were  passing  a  German  outpost  a 
sentry  ran  into  the  road  and  signalled  us  to 
stop. 

"Are  you  Americans  ?"  he  asked. 

"We  are,"  said  I. 

"Then  I  have  orders  to  take  you  to  the 
commandant,"  said  he. 

"But  I  am  on  my  way  to  dine  with  General 
von  Boehn.  I  have  a  pass  signed  by  the 
General  himself  and  I  am  late  already." 

"No  matter,"  the  man  insisted  stubbornly. 
"You  must  come  with  me.  The  commander 
has  so  ordered  it." 

So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  accompany 
the  soldier.  Though  we  tried  to  laugh  away 
our  nervousness,  I  am  quite  willing  to  admit 
that  we  had  visions  of  courts-martial  and  prison 
cells  and  firing-parties.  You  never  know  just 
where  you  are  at  with  the  Germans.  You  see, 
they  have  no  sense  of  humor. 


122       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

We  found  the  commandant  and  his  staff 
quartered  at  a  farmhouse  a  half-mile  down 
the  road.  He  was  a  stout,  florid-faced,  bois- 
terous captain  of  pioneers. 

"I'm  sorry  to  detain  you,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically, "but  I  ordered  the  sentries  to  stop 
the  first  American  car  that  passed,  and  yours 
happened  to  be  the  unlucky  one.  I  have  a 
brother  in  America  and  I  wish  to  send  a  letter 
to  him  to  let  him  know  that  all  is  well  with  me. 
Would  you  have  the  goodness  to  post  it?" 

"I'll  do  better  than  that,  Captain,"  said  I. 
"If  you  will  give  me  your  brother's  name  and 
address,  and  if  he  takes  the  New  York  World, 
he  will  read  in  to-morrow  morning's  paper 
that  I  have  met  you." 

And  the  next  morning,  just  as  I  had  promised, 
Mr.  F.  zur  Nedden,  of  Rosebank,  New  York, 
read  in  the  columns  of  his  morning  paper  that 
I  had  left  his  soldier-brother  comfortably 
quartered  in  a  farmhouse  on  the  outskirts  of 
Renaix,  Belgium,  in  excellent  health  but  drink- 
ing more  red  wine  than  was  likely  to  be  good 
for  him. 

It  was  now  considerably  past  midday,  and 
we  were  within  a  few  miles  of  the  French 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    123 

frontier,  when  I  saw  the  guidon  which  signified 
the  presence  of  the  head  of  the  army,  planted 
at  the  entrance  to  a  splendid  old  chateau.  As 
we  passed  between  the  stately  gate-posts, 
whirled  up  the  splendid,  tree-lined  drive  and 
came  to  a  stop  in  front  of  the  terrace,  a  dozen 
officers  came  running  out  to  meet  us.  So 
cordial  and  informal  were  their  greetings  that 
I  felt  as  though  I  were  being  welcomed  at  a 
country-house  in  America  instead  of  the  head- 
quarters of  a  German  army  in  the  field.  So 
perfect  was  the  field-telephone  service  that  the 
staff  had  been  able  to  keep  in  touch  with  our 
progress  ever  since,  five  hours  before,  we  had 
entered  the  German  lines,  and  had  waited 
dinner  for  us.  General  von  Boehn  I  found 
to  be  a  red-faced,  gray-mustached,  jovial  old 
warrior,  who  seemed  very  much  worried  for 
fear  that  we  were  not  getting  enough  to  eat, 
and  particularly  enough  to  drink.  He  explained 
that  the  Belgian  owners  of  the  chateau  had  had 
the  bad  taste  to  run  away  and  take  their 
servants  with  them,  leaving  only  one  bottle 
of  champagne  in  the  cellar.  That  bottle  was 
good,  however,  as  far  as  it  went. 

Nearly  all  the  officers  spoke  English,   and 


I24       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

during  the  meal  the  conversation  was  chiefly  of 
the  United  States,  for  one  of  them  had  been 
attached  to  the  German  Embassy  at  Washing- 
ton and  knew  the  golf  course  at  Chevy  Chase 
better  than  I  do  myself;  another  had  fished 
in  California  and  shot  elk  in  Wyoming;  and 
a  third  had  attended  the  army  school  at  Fort 
Riley.  After  dinner  we  grouped  ourselves  on 
the  terrace  and  Thompson  made  photographs 
of  us.  They  are  probably  the  only  ones — in 
this  war,  at  least — of  a  German  general  and 
an  American  war  correspondent  who  is  not 
under  arrest.  Then  we  gathered  about  a 
table  on  which  was  spread  a  staff  map  of  the 
war  area  and  got  down  to  serious  business. 

The  general  began  by  asserting  that  the 
accounts  of  atrocities  perpetrated  by  German 
troops  on  Belgian  non-combatants  were  lies. 

"Look  at  these  officers  about  you,"  he  said. 
"They  are  gentlemen,  like  yourself.  Look  at 
the  soldiers  marching  past  in  the  road  out 
there.  Most  of  them  are  the  fathers  of  families. 
Surely  you  do  not  believe  that  they  would  do 
the  unspeakable  things  they  have  been  accused 
of?" 

"Three  days  ago,  General."  said  I,  "I  was 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    125 

! 

in  Aerschot.  The  whole  town  is  now  but  a 
ghastly,  blackened  ruin." 

"When  we  entered  Aerschot,"  was  the 
reply,  "the  son  of  the  burgomaster  came  into 
the  room  where  our  officers  were  dining  and 
assassinated  the  Chief  of  Staff.  What  followed 
was  retribution.  The  townspeople  got  only 
what  they  deserved." 

"But  why  wreak  your  vengeance  on  women 
and  children?"  I  asked. 

"None  have  been  killed,"  the  general  as- 
serted positively. 

"I'm  sorry  to  contradict  you,  General,"  I 
asserted  with  equal  positiveness,  "but  I  have 
myself  seen  their  bodies.  So  has  Mr.  Gibson, 
the  secretary  of  the  American  Legation  in 
Brussels,  who  was  present  during  the  destruc- 
tion of  Louvain." 

"Of  course,"  replied  General  von  Boehn, 
"there  is  always  danger  of  women  and  children 
being  killed  during  street  fighting  if  they  insist 
on  coming  into  the  streets.  It  is  unfortunate, 
but  it  is  war." 

"But  how  about  a  woman's  body  I  saw 
with  the  hands  and  feet  cut  off?  How  about 
the  white-haired  man  and  his  son  whom  I 


126        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

helped  to  bury  outside  of  Sempst,  who  had 
been  killed  merely  because  a  retreating  Belgian 
soldier  had  shot  a  German  soldier  outside 
their  house  ?  There  were  twenty-two  bayonet 
wounds  in  the  old  man's  face.  I  counted 
them.  How  about  the  little  girl,  two  years 
old,  who  was  shot  while  in  her  mother's  arms 
by  a  Uhlan  and  whose  funeral  I  attended  at 
Heyst-op-den-Berg  ?  How  about  the  old  man 
near  Vilvorde  who  was  hung  by  his  hands  from 
the  rafters  of  his  house  and  roasted  to  death 
by  a  bonfire  being  built  under  him  ?" 

The  general  seemed  taken  aback  by  the 
exactness  of  my  information. 

"Such  things  are  horrible  if  true,"  he  said. 
"Of  course,  our  soldiers,  like  soldiers  in  all 
armies,  sometimes  get  out  of  hand  and  do 
things  which  we  would  never  tolerate  if  we 
knew  it.  At  Louvain,  for  example,  I  sen- 
tenced two  soldiers  to  twelve  years'  penal 
servitude  each  for  assaulting  a  woman." 

"Apropos  of  Louvain,"  I  remarked,  "why 
did  you  destroy  the  library?" 

"We  regretted  that  as  much  as  any  one  else," 
vras  the  answer.  "It  caught  fire  from  burning 
houses  and  we  could  not  save  it.' 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS     127 

"But  why  did  you  burn  Louvain  at  all?" 
I  asked. 

"Because  the  townspeople  fired  on  our 
troops.  We  actually  found  machine  guns  in 
some  of  the  houses.  And,"  smashing  his  fist 
down  upon  the  table,  "whenever  civilians  fire 
upon  our  troops  we  will  teach  them  a  lasting 
lesson.  If  women  and  children  insist  on  getting 
in  the  way  of  bullets,  so  much  the  worse  for 
the  women  and  children." 

"How  do  you  explain  the  bornbardment  of 
Antwerp  by  Zeppelins?"  I  inquired. 

"Zeppelins  have  orders  to  drop  their  bombs 
only  on  fortifications  and  soldiers,"  he  answered. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  I  remarked,  "they 
destroyed  only  private  houses  and  innocent 
civilians,  several  of  whom  were  women.  If  one 
of  those  bombs  had  dropped  two  hundred 
yards  nearer  my  hotel  I  wouldn't  be  here  to-day 
smoking  one  of  your  excellent  cigars." 

"That  is  a  calamity  which,  thank  God, 
didn't  happen,"  he  replied. 

"If  you  feel  for  my  safety  as  deeply  as  that, 
General,"  I  said  earnestly,  "you  can  make 
quite  sure  of  my  coming  to  no  harm  by  sending 
no  more  Zeppelins." 


128        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

"Well,  Herr  Powell,"  he  said,  laughing, 
"we  will  think  about  it.  And,"  he  continued 
gravely,  "I  trust  that  you  will  tell  the  American 
people,  through  your  great  paper,  what  I  have 
told  you  to-day.  Let  them  hear  our  side  of 
this  atrocity  business.  It  is  only  justice  that 
they  should  be  made  familiar  with  both  sides 
of  the  question." 

I  have  quoted  my  conversation  with  General 
von  Boehn  as  nearly  verbatim  as  I  can  remember 
it.  I  have  no  comments  to  make.  I  will  leave 
it  to  my  readers  to  decide  for  themselves  just 
how  convincing  were  the  answers  of  the  German 
General  Staff — for  General  von  Boehn  was 
but  its  mouthpiece — to  the  Belgian  accusations. 

Before  we  began  our  conversation  I  asked 
the  general  if  my  photographer,  Thompson, 
might  be  permitted  to  take  photographs  of  the 
great  army  which  was  passing.  Five  minutes 
later  Thompson  whirled  away  in  a  military 
motor-car,  ciceroned  by  the  officer  who  had 
attended  the  army  school  at  Fort  Riley.  It 
seems  that  they  stopped  the  car  beside  the 
road,  in  a  place  where  the  light  was  good,  and 
when  Thompson  saw  approaching  a  regiment 
or  a  battery  or  a  squadron  of  which  he  wished 


Steel  bridge  at  Termonde  dynamited  by  the  Belgians. 


Another  bridge  at  Termonde  destroyed  by  shell-fire. 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS    129 

a  picture  he  would  tell  the  officer,  whereupon 
the  officer  would  blow  a  whistle  and  the  whole 
(column  would  halt. 

"Just  wait  a  few  minutes  until  the  dust 
settles,"  Thompson  would  remark,  lighting  a 
cigar,  and  the  Ninth  Imperial  Army,  whose 
columns  stretched  over  the  countryside  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  see,  would  stand  in  its 
tracks  until  the  air  was  sufficiently  clear  to  get 
a  good  picture. 

A  field-battery  of  the  Imperial  Guard  rum- 
bled past  and  Thompson  made  some  remark 
about  the  accuracy  of  the  American  gunners  at 
Vera  Cruz. 

"Let  us  show  you  what  our  gunners ^can 
do,"  said  the  officer,  and  he  gave  an  order. 
There  were  more  orders — a  perfect  volley  of 
them.  A  bugle  shrilled,  eight  horses  strained 
against  their  collars,  the  drivers  cracked  their 
whips,  the  cannoneers  put  their  shoulders  to 
the  wheels,  and  a  gun  left  the  road  and  swung 
into  position  in  an  adjacent  field.  On  a  knoll 
three  miles  away  an  ancient  windmill  was  beat- 
ing the  air  with  its  huge  wings.  A  shell  hit 
the  windmill  and  tore  it  into  splinters. 

"Good    work,"    Thompson    observed    criti- 


130       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

cally.  "If  those  fellows  of  yours  keep  on 
they'll  be  able  to  get  a  job  in  the  American 
navy  when  the  war  is  over." 

In  all  the  annals  of  modern  war  I  do  not 
believe  that  there  is  a  parallel  to  this  little 
Kansas  photographer  halting,  with  peremptory 
hand,  an  advancing  army  and  leisurely  photo- 
graphing it,  regiment  by  regiment,  and  then 
having  a  field-gun  of  the  Imperial  Guard  go 
into  action  solely  to  gratify  his  curiosity. 

They  were  very  courteous  and  hospitable  to 
me,  those  German  officers,  and  I  was  immensely 
interested  in  all  that  I  saw.  But,  when  all 
is  said  and  done,  they  impressed  me  not  as 
human  beings,  who  have  weaknesses  and  virtues, 
likes  and  dislikes  of  their  own,  but  rather  as 
parts,  more  or  less  important,  of  a  mighty  and 
highly  efficient  machine  which  is  directed  and 
controlled  by  a  cold  and  calculating  intelligence 
in  far-away  Berlin.  That  machine  has  about 
as  much  of  the  human  element  as  a  meat- 
chopper, as  a  steam  roller,  as  the  death  chair 
at  Sing  Sing.  Its  mission  is  to  crush,  pulverize, 
obliterate,  destroy,  and  no  considerations  of 
civilization  or  chivalry  or  humanity  will  affect 
it.  I  think  that  the  Germans,  with  their  grim, 


WITH  THE  SPIKED  HELMETS     131 

set  faces,  their  monotonous  uniforms,  and  the 
ceaseless  shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle  of  their  boots 
must  have  gotten  on  my  nerves,  for  it  was  with 
a  distinct  feeling  of  relief  that  I  turned  the 
bonnet  of  my  car  once  more  towards  Antwerp 
and  my  friends  the  Belgians. 


VI 
ON  THE   BELGIAN   BATTLE-LINE 

IN  writing  of  the  battles  in  Belgium  I  find 
myself  at  a  loss  as  to  what  names  to  give 
them.  After  the  treaty-makers  have  af- 
fixed their  signatures  to  a  piece  of  parch- 
ment and  the  armchair  historians  have  settled 
down  to  the  task  of  writing  a  connected  ac- 
count of  the  campaign,  the  various  engage- 
ments will  doubtless  be  properly  classified  and 
labelled — and  under  the  names  which  they 
will  receive  in  the  histories  we,  who  were 
present  at  them,  will  probably  not  recognize 
them  at  all.  Until  such  time,  then,  as  history 
has  granted  them  the  justice  of  perspective, 
I  can  only  refer  to  them  as  "the  fight  at 
Sempst"  or  "the  first  engagement  at  Alost" 
or  "the  battle  of  Vilvorde"  or  "the  taking  of 
iTermonde."  Not  only  this,  but  the  engage- 
ments that  seemed  to  us  to  be  battles,  or 
remarkably  lifelike  imitations  of  battles,  may 
be  dismissed  by  the  historians  as  unimpor- 
tant skirmishes  and  contacts,  while  those  en- 

132 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    133 

gagements  that  we  carelessly  referred  to  at 
the  time  as  "scraps"  may  well  prove,  in  the 
light  of  future  events,  to  have  been  of  far 
greater  significance  than  we  realized.  I  don't 
even  know  how  many  engagements  I  witnessed, 
for  I  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  keep  count. 
Thompson,  who  was  with  me  from  the  beginning 
of  the  campaign  to  the  end,  told  the  reporters 
who  interviewed  him  upon  his  return  to  London 
that  we  had  been  present  at  thirty-two  engage- 
ments, large  and  small.  Though  I  do  not 
vouch,  mind  you,  for  the  accuracy  of  this 
assertion,  it  is  not  as  improbable  as  it  sounds, 
for,  from  the  middle  of  August  to  the  fall  of 
Antwerp  in  the  early  part  of  October,  it  was 
a  poor  day  that  didn't  produce  a  fight  of  some 
sort. 

The  fighting  in  Belgium  at  this  stage  of  the 
war  may  be  said  to  have  been  confined  to  an 
area  within  a  triangle  whose  corners  were 
Antwerp,  Acrschot,  and  Alost.  The  southern 
side  of  this  triangle,  which  ran  somewhat  to 
the  south  of  Malines,  was  nearly  forty  miles 
in  length,  and  it  was  this  forty-mile  front, 
extending  from  Aerschot  on  the  east  to  Alost 
on  the  west,  which,  during  the  earlier  stages  of 


134       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

the  campaign,  formed  the  Belgian  battle-line. 
As  the  campaign  progressed  and  the  Germans 
developed  their  offensive,  the  Belgians  were 
slowly  forced  back  within  the  converging  sides 
of  the  triangle  until  they  were  squeezed  into 
the  angle  formed  by  Antwerp,  where  they  made 
their  last  stand. 

The  theatre  of  operations  was,  from  the 
standpoint  of  a  professional  onlooker  like 
myself,  very  inconsiderately  arranged.  Nature 
had  provided  neither  orchestra  stalls  nor  boxes. 
All  the  seats  were  bad.  In  fact  it  was  quite 
impossible  to  obtain  a  good  view  of  the  stage 
and  of  the  uniformed  actors  who  were  pre- 
senting the  most  stupendous  spectacle  in  all 
history  upon  it.  The  whole  region,  you  see, 
was  absolutely  flat — as  flat  as  the  top  of  a  table 
— and  there  wasn't  anything  even  remotely 
resembling  a  hill  anywhere.  To  make  matters 
worse,  the  country  was  crisscrossed  by  a 
perfect  network  of  rivers  and  brooks  and 
canals  and  ditches;  the  highways  and  the 
railways,  which  had  to  be  raised  to  keep  them 
from  being  washed  out  by  the  periodic  inun- 
dations, were  so  thickly  screened  by  trees  as 
to  be  quite  useless  for  purposes  of  observation; 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    135 

and  in  the  rare  places  where  a  rise  in  the  ground 
might  have  enabled  one  to  get  a  comprehen- 
sive view  of  the  surrounding  country,  dense 
groves  of  trees  or  red-and-white  villages  almost 
invariably  intervened.  One  could  be  within 
a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  firing-line  and 
literally  not  see  a  thing  save  the  fleecy  puffs 
of  bursting  shrapnel.  Indeed,  I  don't  know 
what  we  should  have  done  had  it  not  been  for 
the  church  towers.  These  were  conveniently 
sprinkled  over  the  landscape — every  cluster  of 
houses  seemed  to  have  one — and  did  their  best 
to  make  up  for  the  region's  topographical 
shortcomings.  The  only  disadvantage  attach- 
ing to  the  use  of  the  church  spires  as  places  to 
view  the  fighting  from  was  that  the  military 
observers  and  the  officers  controlling  the  fire 
of  the  batteries  used  them  for  the  same  purpose. 
The  enemy  knew  this,  of  course,  and  almost 
the  first  thing  he  did,  therefore,  was  to  open 
fire  on  them  with  his  artillery  and  drive  those 
observers  out.  This  accounts  for  the  fact  that 
in  many  sections  of  Belgium  there  is  not  a 
church  spire  left  standing.  When  we  ascended 
a  church  tower,  therefore,  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  a  general  view  of  an  engagement, 


136       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

we  took  our  chances  and  we  knew  it.  More 
than  once,  when  the  enemy  got  the  range  and 
their  shells  began  to  shriek  and  yowl  past  the 
belfry  in  which  I  was  stationed,  I  have  raced 
down  the  rickety  ladders  at  a  speed  which, 
under  normal  conditions,  would  probably  have 
resulted  in  my  breaking  my  neck.  In  view  of 
the  restrictions  imposed  upon  correspondents 
in  the  French  and  Russian  theatres  of  war,  I 
suppose  that  instead  of  finding  fault  with  the 
seating  arrangements  I  should  thank  my  lucky 
stars  that  I  did  not  have  to  write  my  despatches 
with  the  aid  of  an  ordnance  map  and  a  guide- 
book in  a  hotel  bedroom  a  score  or  more  of 
miles  from  the  firing-line. 

The  Belgian  field  army  consisted  of  six  divi- 
sions and  a  brigade  of  cavalry  and  numbered, 
on  paper  at  least,  about  180,000  men.  I  very 
much  doubt,  however,  if  King  Albert  had 
in  the  field  at  any  one  time  more  than  120,000 
men — a  very  large  proportion  of  whom  were, 
of  course,  raw  recruits.  Now  the  Belgian  army, 
when  all  is  said  and  done,  was  not  an  army 
according  to  the  Continental  definition;  it  was 
not  much  more  than  a  glorified  police  force, 
a  militia.  No  one  had  ever  dreamed  that  it 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    137 

would  be  called  upon  to  fight,  and  hence, 
when  war  came,  it  was  wholly  unprepared. 
That  it  was  able  to  offer  the  stubborn  and 
heroic  resistance  which  it  did  to  the  advance 
of  the  German  legions  speaks  volumes  for 
Belgian  stamina  and  courage.  Many  of  the 
troops  were  armed  with  rifles  of  an  obsolete 
pattern,  the  supply  of  ammunition  was  insuffi- 
cient, and  though  the  artillery  was  on  the 
whole  of  excellent  quality,  it  was  placed  at  a 
tremendous  disadvantage  by  the  superior  range 
and  caliber  of  the  German  field-guns.  The 
men:did  not  even  have  the  protection  afforded 
by  neutral-colored  uniforms,  but  fought  from 
first  to  last  in  clothes  of  blue  and  green  and 
blazing  scarlet.  As  I  stood  one  day  in  the 
Place  de  Meir  in  Antwerp  and  watched  a 
regiment  of  mud-bespattered  Guides  clatter 
past,  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  I  was  living 
in  the  twentieth  century  and  not  in  the 
beginning  of  the  nineteenth,  for  instead  of 
serviceable  uniforms  of  gray  or  drab  or  khaki, 
these  men  wore  the  befrogged  green  jackets, 
the  cherry-colored  breeches,  and  the  huge 
fur  busbies  which  one  associates  with  the  sol- 
diers of  Napoleon. 


138        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

The  Carabineers,  for  example,  wore  uniforms 
of  bottle-green  and  queer  sugar-loaf  hats  of 
patent  leather  which  resembled  the  head-gear 
of  the  Directoire  period.  Both  the  Grenadiers 
and  the  infantry  of  the  line  marched  and  fought 
and  slept  in  uniforms  of  heavy  blue  cloth  piped 
with  scarlet  and  small,  round,  visorless  fatigue 
caps  which  afforded  no  protection  from  either 
sun  or  rain.  Some  of  the  men  remedied  this 
by  fitting  their  caps  with  green  reading-shades, 
such  as  undergraduates  wear  when  they  are 
cramming  for  examinations,  so  that  at  first 
glance  a  regiment  looked  as  though  its  ranks 
were  filled  with  either  jockeys  or  students. 
The  gendarmes — who,  by  the  way,  were  always 
to  be  found  where  the  fighting  was  hottest — 
were  the  most  unsuitably  uniformed  of  all, 
for  the  blue  coats  and  silver  aiguillettes  and 
towering  bearskins  which  served  to  impress 
the  simple  country  folk  made  splendid  targets 
for  the  German  marksmen.  This  medley  of 
picturesque  and  brilliant  uniforms  was  wonder- 
fully effective,  of  course,  and  whenever  I  came 
upon  a  group  of  Lancers  in  sky-blue  and  yellow 
lounging  about  the  door  of  a  wayside  tavern 
or  met  a  patrol  of  Guides  in  their  green  jackets 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    139 

and  scarlet  breeches  trotting  along  a  country 
road,  I  always  had  the  feeling  that  I  was  looking 
at  a  painting  by  Meissonier  or  Detaille. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  war  the  Belgian 
cavalry  was  as  well  mounted  as  that  of  any 
European  army,  many  of  the  officers  having 
Irish  hunters,  while  the  men  were  mounted  on 
Hungarian-bred  stock.  The  almost  incessant 
campaigning,  combined  with  lack  of  proper  food 
and  care,  had  its  effect  upon  the  horses,  how- 
ever, and  before  the  campaign  in  Flanders  was 
half  over  the  cavalry  mounts  were  a  raw- 
boned  and  sorry-looking  lot.  The  Belgian 
field  artillery  was  horsed  magnificently:  the 
sturdy,  hardy  animals  native  to  Luxembourg 
and  the  Ardennes  making  admirable  material 
for  gun  teams,  while  the  great  Belgian  draught- 
horses  could  scarcely  have  been  improved  upon 
for  the  army's  heavier  work. 

Speaking  of  cavalry,  the  thing  that  I  most 
wanted  to  see  when  I  went  to  the  war  was  a 
cavalry  charge.  I  had  seen  mounted  troops 
in  action,  of  course,  both  in  Africa  and  in  Asia, 
but  they  had  brown  skins  and  wore  fantastic 
uniforms.  What  I  wanted  to  see  was  one  of 
those  charges  such  as  Meissonier  used  to  paint — 


i4o       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

scarlet  breeches  and  steel  helmets  and  a  sea  of 
brandished  sword-blades  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  But  when  I  confided  my  wish  to  an 
American  army  officer  whom  I  met  on  the  boat 
going  over  he  promptly  discouraged  me. 
"Cavalry  charges  are  a  thing  of  the  past,"  he 
asserted.  "There  will  never  be  one  again. 
The  modern  high-power  rifle  has  made  them  im- 
possible. Henceforward  cavalry  will  only  be  used 
for  scouting  purposes  or  as  mounted  infantry.'* 
He  spoke  with  great  positiveness,  I  remember, 
having  been,  you  see,  in  both  the  Cuban  and 
Philippine  campaigns.  According  to  the  text- 
books and  the  military  experts  and  the  arm- 
chair tacticians  he  was  perfectly  right;  I 
believe  that  all  of  the  writers  on  military 
subjects  agree  in  saying  that  cavalry  charges 
are  obsolete  as  a  form  of  attack.  But  the 
trouble  with  the  Belgians  was  that  they  didn't 
play  the  war  game  according  to  the  rules  in 
the  book.  They  were  very  primitive  in  their 
conceptions  of  warfare.  Their  idea  was  that 
whenever  they  got  within  sight  of  a  German 
regiment  to  go  after  that  regiment  and  smash 
it,  exterminate  it,  wipe  it  out,  and  they  didn't 
care  whether  in  doing  it  they  used  horse,  foot, 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    141 

or  guns.  It  was  owing,  therefore,  to  this  total 
disregard  for  the  rules  laid  down  in  the  text- 
books that  I  saw  my  cavalry  charge.  Let  me 
tell  you  about  it  while  I  have  the  chance,  for 
there  is  no  doubt  that  cavalry  charges  are 
getting  scarce  and  I  may  never  see  another. 
It  was  in  the  region  between  Termonde  and 
Alost.  This  is  a  better  country  for  cavalry 
to  manoeuvre  in  than  most  parts  of  Flanders, 
for  sometimes  one  can  go  almost  a  mile  without 
being  stopped  by  a  canal.  A  considerable  force 
of  Germans  had  pushed  north  from  Alost  and 
the  Belgian  commander  ordered  a  brigade  of 
cavalry,  composed  of  the  two  regiments  of 
Guides  and,  if  I  remember  rightly,  two  regi- 
ments of  Lancers,  to  go  out  and  drive  them 
back.  After  a  morning  spent  in  skirmishing 
and  manoeuvring  for  position,  the  Belgian 
cavalry  commander  got  his  Germans  where  he 
wanted  them.  The  Germans  were  in  front 
of  a  wood,  and  between  them  and  the  Belgians 
lay  as  pretty  a  stretch  of  open  country  as  a 
cavalryman  could  ask  for.  Now  the  Germans 
occupied  a  strong  position,  mind  you,  and  the 
proper  thing  to  have  done  according  to  the 
books  would  have  been  to  have  demoralized 


i42        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

them  with  shell  fire  and  then  to  have  followed 
it  up  with  an  infantry  attack.  But  the  grizzled 
old  Belgian  commander  did  nothing  of  the 
sort.  He  had  fifteen  hundred  troopers  who 
were  simply  praying  for  a  chance  to  go  at  the 
Germans  with  cold  steel,  and  he  gave  them 
the  chance  they  wanted.  Tossing  away  his 
cigarette  and  tightening  the  chin-strap  of  his 
busby,  he  trotted  out  in  front  of  his  men. 
"Right  into  line!"  he  bellowed.  Two  long 
lines — one  the  Guides,  in  green  and  scarlet, 
the  other  the  Lancers,  in  blue  and  yellow — 
spread  themselves  across  the  fields.  "Trot!" 
The  bugles  squealed  the  order.  "Gallop!" 
The  forest  of  lances  dropped  from  vertical  to 
horizontal  and  the  cloud  of  gayly  fluttering 
pennons  changed  into  a  bristling  hedge  of  steel. 
"Charge!"  came  the  order,  and  the  spurs 
went  home.  "  Five  la  Belgique !  Vive  la 
Belgique ! "  roared  the  troopers — and  the 
Germans,  not  liking  the  look  of  those  long  and 
cruel  lances,  broke  and  ran.  Then,  their  work 
having  been  accomplished,  the  cavalry  came 
trotting  back  again.  Of  course,  from  a  military 
standpoint  it  was  an  affair  of  small  importance, 
but  so  far  as  color  and  action  and  excitement 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    143 

were  concerned  it  was  worth-  having  gone  to 
Belgium  to  see. 

Most  people  still  cling  to  those  romantic 
and  spectacular  conceptions  of  war  which  no 
longer  bear  any  relation  to  the  actuality. 
They  do  not  seem  to  comprehend  that  war  is 
no  longer  a  thing  of  dash  and  clash  and  glory, 
but  a  huge  business  which  is  as  scientifically 
and  unemotionally  directed  and  as  method- 
ically conducted  as  the  building  of  a  transcon- 
tinental railway,  or  the  digging  of  an  inter- 
oceanic  canal.  The  public's  false  conception 
of  modern  warfare  is  largely  due  to  the  illus- 
trated papers,  which  are  continually  depict- 
ing incidents,  true  in  themselves,  but  isolated 
and  not  characteristic,  as,  for  example,  the 
storming  of  the  German  trenches  by  the 
Ghurkas,  and  the  charge  of  the  London  Scot- 
tish. 

When  the  average  man,  who  draws  his  ideas 
of  warfare  from  the  newspapers  and  the  New 
York  Hippodrome,  visualizes  a  battle,  he  doubt- 
less pictures  two  lines  of  soldiers  facing  each 
othe>r  across  an  open  field  and  blazing  away  as 
fast  as  they  can  work  their  rifles;  with  batteries 
in  their  immediate  rear  crashing  out  death 


144       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

and  destruction  at  five-second  intervals;  the 
sky  filled  with  the  fleecy  patches  of  cotton-wool 
which  are  bursting  shrapnel;  waves  of  infantry 
rolling  forward  in  an  attempt  to  carry  the 
trenches  with  the  bayonet;  men  falling  every- 
where; the  fields  carpeted  with  dead  and  dying 
men;  orderlies  and  aides-de-camp  dashing  here 
and  there  on  foam-flecked  horses;  aeroplanes 
circling  overhead  and  dropping  occasional 
bombs;  the  crash  of  the  field-guns,  the  rattle  of 
musketry,  the  cheers  of  the  soldiers,  the  orders 
of  officers,  and  the  blare  of  bugles  combining 
to  make  a  racket  which  splits  the  ear-drums. 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  is  not  what 
happens  at  all.  In  the  first  place,  the  noise, 
though  loud,  is  by  no  means  deafening.  (When 
a  shell  bursts  in  your  immediate  vicinity  it  is, 
of  course,  a  different  matter.)  In  the  second 
place,  there  is  no  confusion.  Each  man  has 
his  work  to  do,  and  he  does  it  with  as  little 
fuss  as  possible.  Imagine,  if  you  please,  a  line 
of  men  crouching  resignedly  in  the  advance 
trenches  and,  stretching  in  front  of  them,  what 
looks  like  an  absolutely  deserted  countryside. 
It  is  not  deserted,  however,  as  a  man  instantly 
discovers  if  he  incautiously  raises  his  head  an 


M 


c 

O         «» 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE   145 

inch  or  so  above  the  earthen  parapet  or  wrig- 
gles past  a  spot  on  which  a  German  sharp- 
shooter has  had  his  rifle  trained  for  hours. 
Every  few  seconds  a  shell  which  does  not  kill 
shrieks  and  moans  overhead,  to  explode  some- 
where in  the  rear,  and  occasionally  a  shell  which 
does  kill  drops  right  into  the  trenches  and 
turns  them  into  a  shambles.  But  there  is  no 
glory,  mind  you,  no  flag-waving,  no  hip-hurrah- 
and-here-we-go  business,  nothing  even  remotely 
approaching  the  spectacular.  Dismiss  that 
from  your  mind  once  and  for  all. 

A  few  hundred  yards  back  of  the  trenches 
are  the  reserves,  usually  sheltered  by  woods  or 
farm-buildings  or  hedges,  the  men  lying  about 
on  the  ground  smoking  and  yawning  and  yarn- 
ing as  unconcernedly  as  though  they  were 
mill-hands  waiting  for  the  one  o'clock  whistle 
to  blow. 

A  battery  comes  up  at  a  jog-trot — not  at  the 
mad  gallop  which  the  war  artists  are  so  fond  of 
depicting — and  unlimbers  in  a  near-by  beet 
field.  The  observation  ladder,  looking  like  a 
huge  camera  tripod,  is  unstrapped  and  raised, 
and  an  officer  cautiously  ascends  it  and  peers 
off  across  the,  countryside  through  his  field- 


146       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

glasses.  The  gunners,  looking  very  much 
bored  with  life  and  heartily  sick  of  the  whole 
business,  are  grouped  about  their  pieces  in  the 
positions  prescribed  by  the  regulations.  There 
is  no  excitement  and  no  enthusiasm.  Finally, 
the  officer  finds  what  he  has  been  searching  for, 
a  junior  officer  takes  a  church  tower  or  a  wind- 
mill in  the  rear  of  the  battery  as  a  bench-mark, 
makes  a  few  mathematical  calculations,  and 
calls  the  range.  The  officer  in  command  of 
the  battery  quietly  gives  the  order  to  fire;  a 
sergeant  who  has  been  standing  with  upraised 
arm  brings  his  arm  down  sharply,  like  a  sema- 
phore; there  are  four  splitting  crashes — one 
after  another  unless  they  are  firing  salvoes — 
four  stabs  of  flame,  four  lean  gray  barrels  vio- 
lently recoiling,  four  wisps  of  smoke  as  the 
breeches  are  thrown  open  and  the  four  hot  and 
smoking  shells  replaced  by  four  new  and  gleam- 
ing projectiles — and  then  the  same  thing  all 
over  again.  The  gunners  show  no  more  ex- 
citement or  emotion  than  miners  who  are  set- 
ting off  blasts;  the  officers  are  as  preoccupied 
with  their  mathematical  calculations  as  though 
they  were  engineers  building  a  railway.  No 
one  takes  the  slightest  interest  in  what  sue- 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    147 

cess  has  attended  their  efforts;  probably  no 
one  but  the  captain  knows.  Yet  four  or  five 
or  six  miles  away  in  the  streets  of  that  village 
whose  church  spire  rises  above  the  tree  tops, 
or  behind  that  screen  of  woods,  or  in  the 
trenches  which  are  on  the  other  side  of  that 
hill,  men  are  falling  dead,  or  dying,  or  horribly 
wounded,  beneath  the  fleecy  patches  which  fol- 
low every  crash  of  the  guns. 

In  the  sketches  of  battles  printed  in  the  illus- 
trated papers,  the  sky  is  almost  invariably 
filled  with  the  white  puffs  which  are  bursting 
shrapnel.  Now,  that  means  either  that  the 
gunners  are  firing  at  dirigibles  or  aeroplanes, 
or,  what  is  much  more  likely,  that  their  gunnery 
is  atrociously  bad.  A  shell  that  bursts  in  the 
sky  does  no  harm  to  any  one.  In  theory,  at 
least,  shrapnel,  to  attain  the  maximum  of 
deadliness,  should  burst  at  a  height  above  the 
ground  equivalent  to  three  mills  of  the  range — 
a  mill  being  one  thousandth  of  the  distance. 
If,  therefore,  a  battery  is  firing  at,  say,  six 
thousand  yards,  the  shells  should  burst  eighteen 
yards  above  the  ground. 

These  false  conceptions  of  modern  warfare 
have  resulted  in  creating  a  false  picture  of  the 


i48        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

type  of  soldiers  that  are  wanted.  What  is 
wanted  is  ordinary  men,  trained  to  shoot  and, 
above  all  else,  trained  to  obey  orders;  men  who 
can  sit  for  days  and  nights  in  sodden  clothing 
in  sodden  trenches,  with  indifferent  and  often 
insufficient  food,  waiting  patiently,  helplessly, 
for  the  death  which  may  or  may  not  come. 

Pit  five  hundred  day-laborers — men  who  are 
accustomed  to  performing  hard  manual  labor 
in  all  kinds  of  weather — against  double  that 
number  of  sportsmen  and  college  men,  and 
it  is  dollars  to  dimes  that  the  laborers  would 
win,  not  because  they  would  be  any  braver, 
but  because  they  would  be  accustomed  to  fa- 
tigue and  privation  and  unending  hard  work, 
which,  after  all,  is  what  this  war  consists  of. 

After  the  German  occupation  of  Brussels, 
the  first  engagement  of  sufficient  magnitude 
to  be  termed  a  battle  took  place  on  August 
25  and  26  in  the  Sempst-Elewyt-Eppeghem- 
Vilvorde  region,  midway  between  Brussels  and 
Malines.  The  Belgians  had  in  action  four 
divisions,  totaling  about  eighty  thousand  men, 
opposed  to  which  was  a  considerably  heavier 
force  of  Germans.  To  get  a  clear  conception 
of  the  battle  one  must  picture  a  fifty-foot-high 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE   149 

railway  embankment,  its  steeply  sloping  sides 
heavily  wooded,  stretching  its  length  across  a 
fertile,  smiling  countryside  like  a  monstrous 
green  snake.  On  this  line,  in  time  of  peace,  the 
bloc  trains  made  the  journey  from  Antwerp 
to  Brussels  in  less  than  an  hour.  Malines, 
with  its  historic  buildings  and  its  famous 
cathedral,  lies  on  one  side  of  this  line  and  the 
village  of  Vilvorde  on  the  other,  five  miles 
separating  them.  On  the  25th  the  Belgians, 
believing  the  Brussels  garrison  to  have  been 
seriously  weakened  and  the  German  communi- 
cations poorly  guarded,  moved  out  in  force 
from  the  shelter  of  the  Antwerp  forts  and 
assumed  a  vigorous  offensive.  It  was  like  a 
terrier  attacking  a  bulldog.  They  drove  the 
Germans  from  Malines  by  the  very  impetus  of 
their  attack,  but  the  Germans  brought  up  heavy 
reinforcements,  and  by  the  morning  of  the 
26th  the  Belgians  were  in  a  most  perilous  posi- 
tion. The  battle  which  hinged  on  the  posses- 
sion of  the  railway  embankment  gradually 
extended,  each  army  trying  to  outflank  the 
other,  until  it  was  being  fought  along  a  front 
of  thirty  miles.  At  dawn  on  the  second  day 
an  artillery  duel  began  across  the  embankment, 


ISO       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

the  German  fire  being  corrected  by  observers 
in  captive  balloons.  By  noon  the  Germans 
had  gotten  the  range  and  a  rain  of  shrapnel 
was  bursting  about  the  Belgian  batteries,  which 
limbered  up  and  retired  at  a  trot  in  perfect 
order.  After  the  guns  were  out  of  range  I 
could  see  the  dark-blue  masses  of  the  support- 
ing Belgian  infantry  slowly  falling  back,  cool 
as  a  winter's  morning.  Through  an  oversight, 
however,  two  battalions  of  Carabineers  did  not 
receive  the  order  to  retire  and  were  in  imminent 
danger  of  being  cut  off  and  destroyed.  Then 
occurred  one  of  the  bravest  acts  that  I  have 
ever  seen.  To  reach  them  a  messenger  would 
have  to  traverse  a  mile  of  open  road,  swept  by 
shrieking  shrapnel  and  raked  by  rifle  fire. 
There  was  about  one  chance  in  a  thousand  of 
a  man  getting  to  the  end  of  that  road  alive. 
A  colonel  standing  beside  me  under  a  railway 
culvert  summoned  a  gendarme,  gave  him  the 
necessary  orders,  and  added,  "Bonne  chance, 
mon  brave."  The  man,  a  fierce-mustached 
fellow  who  would  have  gladdened  the  heart 
of  Napoleon,  knew  that  he  was  being  sent  into 
the  jaws  of  death,  but  he  merely  saluted,  set 
spurs  to  his  horse,  and  tore  down  the  road, 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    151 

an  archaic  figure  in  his  towering  bearskin.  He 
reached  the  troops  uninjured  and  gave  the 
order  for  them  to  retreat,  but  as  they  fell  back 
the  German  gunners  got  the  range  and  with 
marvellous  accuracy  dropped  shell  after  shell 
into  the  running  column.  Soon  road  and 
fields  were  dotted  with  corpses  in  Belgian 
blue. 

Time  after  time  the  Germans  attempted  to 
carry  the  railway  embankment  with  the  bayo- 
net, but  the  Belgians  met  them  with  blasts  of 
lead  which  shrivelled  the  gray  columns  as 
leaves  are  shrivelled  by  an  autumn  wind.  By 
mid-afternoon  the  Belgians  and  Germans  were 
in  places  barely  a  hundred  yards  apart,  and  the 
rattle  of  musketry  sounded  like  a  boy  drawing 
a  stick  along  the  palings  of  a  picket-fence. 
During  the  height  of  the  battle  a  Zeppelin 
slowly  circled  over  the  field  like  a  great  vulture 
awaiting  a  feast.  So  heavy  was  the  fighting 
that  the  embankment  of  a  branch  railway 
from  which  .  I  viewed  the  afternoon's  battle 
was  literally  carpeted  with  the  corpses  of 
Germans  who  had  been  killed  during  the 
morning.  One  of  them  had  died  clasping  a 
woman's  picture.  He  was  buried  with  it  still 


1 52       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

clenched  in  his  hand.  I  saw  peasants  throw 
a  score  of  bodies  into  a  single  grave.  One 
peasant  would  grasp  a  corpse  by  the  shoulders 
and  another  would  take  its  feet  and  they  would 
give  it  a  swing  as  though  it  were  a  sack  of 
meal.  As  I  watched  these  inanimate  forms 
being  carelessly  tossed  into  the  trench  it  was 
hard  to  make  myself  believe  that  only  a  few 
hours  before  they  had  been  sons  or  husbands 
or  fathers  and  that  somewhere  across  the 
Rhine  women  and  children  were  waiting  and 
watching  and  praying  for  them.  At  a  ham- 
let near  Sempst  I  helped  to  bury  an  aged 
farmer  and  his  son,  inoffensive  peasants,  who 
had  been  executed  by  the  Germans  because  a 
retreating  Belgian  soldier  had  shot  a  Uhlan  in 
front  of  their  farmhouse.  Not  content  with 
shooting  them,  they  had  disfigured  them  almost 
beyond  recognition.  There  were  twenty-two 
bayonet  wounds  in  the  old  man's  face.  I 
know,  for  I  counted  them. 

By  four  o'clock  all  the  Belgian  troops  were 
withdrawn  except  a  thin  screen  to  cover  the 
retreat.  As  I  wished  to  see  the  German 
advance  I  remained  on  the  railway  embank- 
ment on  the  outskirts  of  Sempst  after  all  the 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    153 

Belgians,  save  a  picket  of  ten  men,  had  been 
withdrawn  from  the  village.  I  had  my  car 
waiting  in  the  road  below  with  the  motor 
running.  As  the  German  infantry  would 
have  to  advance  across  a  mile  of  open  fields  it 
was  obvious  that  I  would  have  ample  time 
in  which  to  get  away.  The  Germans  prefaced 
their  advance  by  a  terrific  cannonade.  The 
air  was  filled  with  whining  shrapnel.  Farm- 
houses collapsed  amid  puffs  of  brown  smoke. 
The  sky  was  smeared  in  a  dozen  places  with 
the  smoke  of  burning  hamlets.  Suddenly  a 
soldier  crouching  beside  me  cried,  "  Les  Alle- 
mands  !  Les  Allemands  !  "  and  from  the  woods 
which  screened  the  railway  embankment  burst 
a  long  line  of  gray  figures,  hoarsely  cheering. 
At  almost  the  same  moment  I  heard  a  sudden 
splutter  of  shots  in  the  village  street  behind 
me  and  my  driver  screamed,  "Hurry  for  your 
life,  monsieur!  The  Uhlans  are  upon  us!" 
In  my  desire  to  see  th,e  main  German  advance 
it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  a  force  of  the 
enemy's  cavalry  might  slip  around  and  take  us 
in  the  flank,  which  was  exactly  what  had 
happened.  It  was  three  hundred  yards  to  the 
car  and  a  freshly  ploughed  field  lay  between, 


154       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

but  I  am  confident  that  I  broke  the  world's 
record  for  the  distance.  As  I  leaped  into  the 
car  and  we  shot  down  the  road  at  fifty  miles 
an  hour,  the  Uhlans  cantered  into  the  village, 
the  sunlight  striking  on  their  lance  tips.  It 
was  a  close  call. 

The  retreat  from  Malines  provided  a  spec- 
tacle which  I  shall  never  forget.  For  twenty 
miles  every  road  was  jammed  with  clattering 
cavalry,  plodding  infantry,  and  rumbling  bat- 
teries, the  guns,  limbers,  and  caissons  still 
covered  with  the  green  boughs  which  had  been 
used  to  mask  their  position  from  German 
aeroplanes.  Gendarmes  in  giant  bearskins, 
Chasseurs  in  uniforms  of  green  and  yellow, 
Carabineers  with  their  shiny  leather  hats, 
Grenadiers,  infantry  of  the  line,  Guides,  Lancers, 
sappers  and  miners  with  picks  and  spades, 
engineers  with  pontoon  wagons,  machine  guns 
drawn  by  dogs,  ambulances  with  huge  Red 
Cross  flags  fluttering  above  them,  and  cars, 
cars,  cars,  all  the  dear  old  familiar  American 
makes  among  them,  contributed  to  form  a 
mighty  river  flowing  Antwerpward.  Malines 
formerly  had  a  population  of  fifty  thousand 
people,  and  forty-five  thousand  of  these 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    155 

fled  when  they  heard  that  the  Germans  were 
returning.  The  scenes  along  the  road  were 
heart-rending  in  their  pathos.  The  very  young 
and  the  very  old,  the  rich  and  the  well-to- 
do  and  the  poverty-stricken,  the  lame  and  the 
sick  and  the  blind,  with  the  few  belongings 
they  had  been  able  to  save  in  sheet-wrapped 
bundles  on  their  backs  or  piled  in  push-carts, 
clogged  the  roads  and  impeded  the  soldiery. 
These  people  were  abandoning  all  that  they 
held  most  dear  to  pillage  and  destruction. 
They  were  completely  terrorized  by  the 
Germans.  But  the  Belgian  army  was  not 
terrorized.  It  was  a  retreating  army  but  it 
was  victorious  in  retreat.  The  soldiers  were 
cool,  confident,  courageous,  and  gave  me  the 
feeling  that  if  the  German  giant  left  himself 
unguarded  a  single  instant  little  Belgium  would 
drive  home  a  solar-plexus  blow. 

For  many  days  after  its  evacuation  by  the 
Belgians,  Malines  occupied  an  unhappy  position 
midway  between  the  contending  armies,  being 
alternately  bombarded  by  the  Belgians  and 
the  Germans.  The  latter,  instead  of  en- 
deavoring to  avoid  damaging  the  splendid 
cathedral,  whose  tower,  three  hundred  and 


1 56       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

twenty-five  feet  high,  is  the  most  conspicuous 
landmark  in  the  region,  seemed  to  take  a  grim 
pleasure  in  directing  their  fire  upon  the  ancient 
building.  The  great  clock,  the  largest  in 
Belgium,  was  destroyed;  the  famous  stained- 
glass  windows  were  broken;  the  exquisite 
carvings  were  shattered;  and  shells,  crashing 
through  the  walls  and  roof,  converted  the 
beautiful  interior  into  a  heap  of  debris.  As 
there  were  no  Belgian  troops  in  Malines  at 
this  time,  and  as  this  fact  was  perfectly  well 
known  to  the  Germans,  this  bombardment  of 
an  undefended  city  and  the  destruction  of  its 
historic  monuments  struck  me  as  being  pecu- 
liarly wanton  and  not  induced  by  any  military 
necessity.  It  was,  of  course,  part  and  parcel 
of  the  German  policy  of  terrorism  and  intimi- 
dation. The  bombardment  of  cities,  the 
destruction  of  historic  monuments,  the  burning 
of  villages,  and,  in  many  cases,  the  massacre  of 
civilians  was  the  price  which  the  Belgians  were 
forced  to  pay  for  resisting  the  invader. 

In  order  to  ascertain  just  what  damage  had 
been  done  to  the  city,  and  particularly  to  the 
cathedral,  I  ran  into  Malines  in  my  car  during 
a  pause  in  the  bombardment.  As  the  streets 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    157 

were  too  narrow  to  permit  of  turning  the  cir 
around,  and  as  it  was  more  than  probable  that 
we  should  have  to  get  out  in  a  hurry,  Roos 
(  suggested  that  we  run  in  backward,  which  we 
did,  I  standing  up  in  the  tonneau,  field-glasses 
glued  to  my  eyes,  on  the  lookout  for  lurking 
Germans.  I  don't  recall  ever  having  had  a 
more  eerie  experience  than  that  surreptitious 
visit  to  Malines.  The  city  was  as  silent  and 
deserted  as  a  cemetery;  there  was  not  a  human 
being  to  be  seen;  and  as  we  cautiously  ad- 
vanced through  the  narrow,  winding  streets, 
the  vacant  houses  echoed  the  throbbing  of  the 
motor  with  a  racket  which  was  positively 
startling.  Just  as  we  reached  the  square  in 
front  of  the  cathedral  a  German  shell  came 
shrieking  over  the  housetops  and  burst  with 
a  shattering  crash  in  the  upper  story  of  a 
building  a  few  yards  away.  The  whole  front 
of  that  building  came  crashing  down  about  us 
in  a  cascade  of  brick  and  plaster.  We  did  not 
stay  on  the  order  of  our  going.  No.  We 
went  out  of  that  town  faster  than  any  auto- 
mobile ever  went  out  of  it  before.  We  went 
so  fast,  in  fact,  that  we  struck  and  killed  the 
only  remaining  inhabitant.  He  was  a  large 
yellow  dog. 


158        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

Owing  to  strategic  reasons  the  magnitude 
and  significance  of  the  great  four  days'  battle 
which  was  fought  in  mid-September  between 
the  Belgian  field  army  and  the  combined 
German  forces  in  northern  Belgium  were  care- 
fully masked  in  all  official  communications  at 
the  time,  and,  in  the  rush  of  later  events,  its 
importance  was  lost  sight  of.  Yet  the  great 
flanking  movement  of  the  Allies  in  France 
largely  owed  its  success  to  this  determined 
offensive  movement  on  the  part  of  the  Belgians, 
who,  as  it  afterward  proved,  were  acting  in 
close  co-operation  with  the  French  General 
Staff.  This  unexpected  sally,  which  took  the 
Germans  completely  by  surprise,  not  only 
compelled  them  to  concentrate  all  their  avail- 
able forces  in  Belgium,  but,  what  was  far  more 
important,  it  necessitated  the  hasty  recall  of 
their  Third  and  Ninth  Armies,  which  were 
close  to  the  French  frontier  and  whose  addition 
to  the  German  battle-line  in  France  might 
well  have  turned  the  scales  in  Germany's 
favor.  In  addition  the  Germans  had  to  bring 
up  their  Landwehr  and  Landsturm  regiments 
from  the  south  of  Brussels,  and  a  naval  division 
composed  of  fifteen  thousand  sailors  and 
marines  was  also  engaged.  It  is  no  exaggera- 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    159 

tion,  then,  to  say  that  the  success  of  the  Allies 
on  the  Aisne  was  in  great  measure  due  to  the 
sacrifices  made  on  this  occasion  by  the  Belgian 
army.  Every  available  man  which  the  Germans 
could  put  into  the  field  was  used  to  hold  a  line 
running  through  Sempst,  Weerde,  Campen- 
hout,  Wespelaer,  Rotselaer,  and  Holsbeek. 
The  Belgians  lay  to  the  northeast  of  this  line, 
their  left  resting  on  Aerschot  and  their  centre 
at  Meerbeek.  Between  the  opposing  armies 
stretched  the  Malines-Louvain  canal,  along 
almost  the  entire  length  of  which  fighting  as 
bloody  as  any  in  the  war  took  place. 

To  describe  this  battle — I  do  not  even  know 
by  what  name  it  will  be  known  to  future 
generations — would  be  to  usurp  the  duties  of 
the  historian,  and  I  shall  only  attempt,  there- 
fore, to  tell  you  of  that  portion  of  it  which  I 
saw  with  my  own  eyes.  On  the  morning  of 
September  13  four  Belgian  divisions  moved 
southward  from  Malines,  their  objective  being 
•  the  town  of  Weerde,  on  the  Antwerp-Brussels 
railway.  It  was  known  that  the  Germans 
occupied  Weerde  in  force,  so  throughout  the 
day  the  Belgian  artillery,  masked  by  heavy 
woods,  pounded  away  incessantly  at  the  town. 


160       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

By  noon  the  enemy's  guns  ceased  to  reply, 
which  was  assumed  by  the  jubilant  Belgians  to 
be  a  sign  that  the  German  artillery  had  been 
silenced.  At  noon  the  Belgian  First  Division 
moved  forward  and  Thompson  and  I,  leaving 
the  car  in  front  of  a  convent  over  which  the 
Red  Cross  flag  was  flying,  moved  forward  with 
it.  Standing  quite  by  itself  in  the  middle  of  a 
field,  perhaps  a  mile  beyond  the  convent, 
was  a  two-story  brick  farmhouse.  A  hundred 
yards  in  front  of  the  farmhouse  stretched  the 
raised,  stone-paved,  tree-lined  highway  which 
runs  from  Brussels  to  Antwerp,  and  on  the 
other  side  of  the  highway  was  Weerde.  Shel- 
tering ourselves  as  much  as  possible  in  the 
trenches  which  zigzagged  across  the  field,  and 
dashing  at  full  speed  across  the  open  places 
which  were  swept  by  rifle  fire,  we  succeeded 
in  reaching  the  farmhouse.  Ascending  to  the 
garret,  we  broke  a  hole  through  the  tiled  roof 
and  found  ourselves  looking  down  upon  the 
battle  precisely  as  one  looks  down  on  a  ball 
game  from  the  upper  tier  of  seats  at  the  Polo 
Grounds.  Lying  in  the  deep  ditch  which  bor- 
dered our  side  of  the  highway  was  a  Belgian  in- 
fantry brigade,  composed  of  two  regiments  of 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    161 

Carabineers  and  two  regiments  of  Chasseurs  d 
piedy  the  men  all  crouching  in  the  ditch  or  ly- 
ing prone  upon  the  ground.  Five  hundred  yards 
away,  on  the  other  side  of  the  highway,  we 
could  see  through  the  trees  the  whitewashed 
walls  and  red  pottery  roofs  of  Weerde,  while 
a  short  distance  to  the  right,  in  a  heavily 
wooded  park,  was  a  large  stone  chateau.  The 
only  sign  that  the  town  was  occupied  was  a 
pall  of  blue-gray  vapor  which  hung  over  it 
and  a  continuous  crackle  of  musketry  coming 
from  it,  though  occasionally,  through  my 
glasses,  I  could  catch  glimpses  of  the  lean 
muzzles  of  machine  guns  protruding  from  the 
upper  windows  of  the  chateau. 

Now,  you  must  bear  in  mind  the  fact  that 
in  this  war  soldiers  fired  from  the  trenches 
for  days  on  end  without  once  getting  a  glimpse 
of  the  enemy.  They  knew  that  somewhere 
opposite  them,  in  that  bit  of  wood,  perhaps,  or 
behind  that  group  of  buildings,  or  on  the 
other  side  of  that  railway  embankment,  the 
enemy  was  trying  to  kill  them  just  as  earnestly 
as  they  were  trying  to  kill  him.  But  they 
rarely  got  a  clear  view  of  him  save  in  street 
fighting  and,  of  course,  when  he  was  advancing 


162        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

across  open  country.  Soldiers  no  longer  select 
their  man  and  pick  him  off  as  one  would  pick 
off  a  stag,  because  the  great  range  of  modern 
rifles  has  put  the  firing-lines  too  far  apart  for 
that  sort  of  thing.  Instead,  therefore,  of  aim- 
ing at  individuals,  soldiers  aim  at  the  places 
where  they  believe  those  individuals  to  be. 
Each  company  commander  shows  his  men  their 
target,  tells  them  at  what  distance  to  set  their 
sights,  and  controls  their  expenditure  of  ammu- 
nition, the  fire  of  infantry  generally  being  more 
effective  when  delivered  in  bursts  by  sections. 

What  I  have  said  in  general  about  infantry 
being  unable  to  see  the  target  at  which  they  are 
firing  was  particularly  true  at  Weerde  owing  to 
the  dense  foliage  which  served  to  screen  the 
enemy's  position.  Occasionally,  after  the  ex- 
plosion of  a  particularly  well-placed  Belgian 
shell,  Thompson  and  I,  from  our  hole  in  the 
roof  and  with  the  aid  of  our  high-power  glasses, 
could  catch  fleeting  glimpses  of  scurrying  gray- 
clad  figures,  but  that  was  all.  The  men  below 
us  in  the  trenches  could  see  nothing  except 
the  hedges,  gardens,  and  red-roofed  houses  of 
a  country  town.  They  knew  the  enemy  was 
there,  however,  from  the  incessant  rattle  of 


<  ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    163 

musketry  and  machine  guns  and  from  the 
screams  and  exclamations  of  those  of  their 
fellows  who  happened  to  get  in  the  bullets' 
way. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  word  was  passed  down 
the  line  that  the  German  guns  had  been 
put  out  of  action,  that  the  enemy  was 
retiring,  and  that  at  5.30  sharp  trfe  whole 
Belgian  line  would  advance  and  take  the 
town  with  the  bayonet.  Under  cover  of 
artillery  fire  so  continuous  that  it  sounded 
like  thunder  in  the  mountains,  the  Belgian 
infantry  climbed  out  of  the  trenches  and, 
throwing  aside  their  knapsacks,  formed  up 
behind  the  road  preparatory  to  the  grand 
assault.  A  moment  later  a  dozen  dog  batteries 
came  trotting  up  and  took  position  on  the  left 
of  the  infantry.  At  5.30  to  the  minute  the 
whistles  of  the  officers  sounded  shrilly  and  the 
mile-long  line  of  men  swept  forward  cheering. 
They  crossed  the  roadway,  they  scrambled 
over  ditches,  they  climbed  fences,  they  pushed 
through  hedges,  until  they  were  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  the  line  of  buildings  which 
formed  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Then  hell 
itself  broke  loose.  The  whole  German  front, 


164       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

which  for  several  hours  past  had  replied  but 
feebly  to  the  Belgian  fire,  spat  a  continuous 
stream  of  lead  and  flame.  The  rolling  crash 
of  musketry  and  the  ripping  snarl  of  machine 
guns  were  stabbed  by  the  vicious  pom-pom-pom- 
pom-pom  of  the  quick-firers.  From  every 
window  of  the  three-storied  chateau  opposite 
us  the  lean  muzzles  of  mitrailleuses  poured  out 
their  hail  of  death.  I  have  seen  fighting  on 
four  continents,  but  I  have  never  witnessed 
so  deadly  a  fire  as  that  which  wiped  out  the 
head  of  the  Belgian  column  as  a  sponge  wipes 
out  figures  on  a  slate. 

The  Germans  had  prepared  a  trap  and  the 
Belgians  had  walked — or  rather  charged — 
directly  into  it.  Three  minutes  later  the  dog 
batteries  came  tearing  back  on  a  dead  run. 
That  should  have  been  a  signal  that  it  was 
high  time  for  us  to  go,  but,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  a  storm  was  brewing,  we  waited  to  see 
the  ninth  inning.  Then  things  began  to 
happen  with  a  rapidity  that  was  bewildering. 
Back  through  the  hedges,  across  the  ditches, 
over  the  roadway  came  the  Belgian  infantry, 
crouching,  stooping,  running  for  their  lives. 
Every  now  and  then  a  soldier  would  stumble, 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    165 

as  though  he  had  stubbed  his  toe,  and  throw 
out  his  arms  and  fall  headlong.  The  road 
was  sprinkled  with  silent  forms  in  blue  and 
green.  The  fields  were  sprinkled  with  them 
too.  One  man  was  hit  as  he  was  strug- 
gling to  get  through  a  hedge  and  died  stand- 
ing, held  upright  by  the  thorny  branches.  Men 
with  blood  streaming  down  their  faces,  men 
with  horrid  crimson  patches  on  their  tunics, 
limped,  crawled,  staggered  past,  leaving  scarlet 
trails  behind  them.  A  young  officer  of  Chas- 
seurs, who  had  been  recklessly  exposing  himself 
while  trying  to  check  the  retreat  of  his  men, 
suddenly  spun  around  on  his  heels,  like  one  of 
those  wooden  toys  which  the  curb  venders  sell, 
and  then  crumpled  up,  as  though  all  the  bone 
and  muscle  had  gone  out  of  him.  A  man 
plunged  into  a  half-filled  ditch  and  lay  there, 
with  his  head  under  water.  I  could  see  the 
water  slowly  redden. 

Bullets  began  to  smash  the  tiles  above  us. 
"This  is  no  place  for  two  innocent  little 
American  boys,"  remarked  Thompson,  shoul- 
dering his  camera.  I  agreed  with  him.  By 
the  time  we  reached  the  ground  the  Belgian 
infantry  was  half  a  mile  in  our  rear,  and  to 


i66       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

reach  the  car  we  had  to  cross  nearly  a  mile  of 
open  field.  Bullets  were  singing  across  it  and 
kicking  up  little  spurts  of  brown  earth  where 
they  struck.  We  had  not  gone  a  hundred 
yards  when  the  German  artillery,  which  the 
Belgians  so  confidently  asserted  had  been 
silenced,  opened  with  shrapnel.  Have  you 
ever  heard  a  winter  gale  howling  and  shriek- 
ing through  the  tree  tops  ?  Of  course.  Then 
you  know  what  shrapnel  sounds  like,  only  it  is 
louder.  You  have  no  idea  though  how  ex- 
tremely annoying  shrapnel  is,  when  it  bursts 
in  your  immediate  vicinity.  You  feel  as 
though  you  would  like  nothing  in  the  world 
so  much  as  to  be  suddenly  transformed  into  a 
woodchuck  and  have  a  convenient  hole.  I 
remembered  that  an  artillery  officer  had  told 
me  that  a  burst  of  shrapnel  from  a  battery 
two  miles  away  will  spread  itself  over  an  eight- 
acre  field,  and  every  time  I  heard  the  moan 
of  an  approaching  shell  I  wondered  if  it  would 
decide  to  explode  in  the  particular  eight-acre 
field  in  which  I  happened  to  be. 

As  though  the  German  shell  storm  was  not 
making  things  sufficiently  uncomfortable  for 
•as,  when  we  were  half-way  across  the  field 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    167 

two  Belgian  soldiers  suddenly  rose  from  a 
trench  and  covered  us  with  their  rifles.  "Halt ! 
Hands  up  !"  they  shouted.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  obey  them.  We  advanced  with 
our  hands  in  the  air  but  with  our  heads  twisted 
upward  on  the  lookout  for  shrapnel.  As  we 
approached  they  recognized  us.  "Oh,  you're 
the  Americans,"  said  one  of  them,  lowering 
his  rifle.  "We  couldn't  see  your  faces  and 
we  took  you  for  Germans.  You'd  better 
come  with  us.  It's  getting  too  hot  to  stay 
here."  The  four  of  us  started  on  a  run  for  a 
little  cluster  of  houses  a  few  hundred  yards 
away.  By  this  time  the  shells  were  coming 
across  at  the  rate  of  twenty  a  minute.  "Sup- 
pose we  go  into  a  cellar  until  the  storm  blows 
over,"  suggested  Roos,  who  had  joined  us. 
"I'm  all  for  that,"  said  I,  making  a  dive  for 
the  nearest  doorway.  "Keep  away  from  that 
house!"  shouted  a  Belgian  soldier  who  sud- 
denly appeared  from  around  a  corner.  "The 
man  who  owns  it  has  gone  insane  from  fright. 
He's  up-stairs  with  a  rifle  and  he's  shooting  at 
every  one  who  passes."  "Well,  I  call  that 
damned  inhospitable,"  said  Thompson,  and 
Roos  and  I  heartily  agreed  with  him.  There 


168        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

was  nothing  else  for  it,  therefore,  but  to  make 
a  dash  for  the  car.  We  had  left  it  standing 
in  front  of  a  convent  over  which  a  Red  Cross 
flag  was  flying  on  the  assumption  that  there  it 
would  be  perfectly  safe.  But  we  found  that 
we  were  mistaken.  The  Red  Cross  flag  did 
not  spell  protection  by  any  means.  As  we 
came  within  sight  of  the  car  a  shell  burst 
within  thirty  feet  of  it,  a  fragment  of  the 
projectile  burying  itself  in  the  door.  I  never 
knew  of  a  car  taking  so  long  to  crank.  Though 
it  was  really  probably  only  a  matter  of  seconds 
before  the  engine  started  it  seemed  to  us, 
standing  in  that  shell-swept  road,  like  hours. 
Darkness  had  now  fallen.  A  torrential  rain 
had  set  in.  The  car  slid  from  one  side  of  the 
road  to  the  other  like  a  Scotchman  coming 
home  from  celebrating  Bobbie  Burns's  birth- 
day and  repeatedly  threatened  to  capsize  in 
the  ditch.  The  mud  was  ankle-deep  and  the 
road  back  to  Malines  was  now  in  the  possession 
of  the  Germans,  so  we  were  compelled  to  make 
a  detour  through  a  deserted  countryside, 
running  through  the  inky  blackness  without 
lights  so  as  not  to  invite  a  visit  from  a  shell. 
It  was  long  after  midnight  when,  cold,  wet, 


ON  THE  BELGIAN  BATTLE-LINE    169 

and  famished,  we  called  the  password  to  the 
sentry  at  the  gateway  through  the  barbed-wire 
entanglements  which  encircled  Antwerp  and 
he  let  us  in.  It  was  a  very  lively  day  for, 
every  one  concerned  and  there  were  a  few 
minutes  when  I  thought  that  I  would  never 
see  the  Statue  of  Liberty  again. 


VII 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH 

IMAGINE,  if  you  please,  a  professional 
heavyweight  prize-fighter,  with  an  ab- 
normally long  reach,  holding  an  ama- 
teur bantam-weight  boxer  at  arm's  length 
with  one  hand  and  hitting  him  when  and 
where  he  pleased  with  the  other.  The  fact 
that  the  little  man  was  not  in  the  least  afraid 
of  his  burly  antagonist  and  that  he  got  in  a 
vicious  kick  or  jab  whenever  he  saw  an  opening 
would  not,  of  course,  have  any  effect  on  the 
outcome  of  the  unequal  contest.  Now  that 
is  almost  precisely  what  happened  when  the 
Germans  besieged  Antwerp,  the  enormously 
superior  range  and  caliber  of  their  siege-guns 
enabling  them  to  pound  the  city's  defences  to 
pieces  at  their  leisure  without  the  defenders 
being  able  to  offer  any  effective  resistance. 

Though  Antwerp  was  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  a  besieged  city  for  many  weeks  prior 
to  its  capture,  it  was  not  until  the  beginning 

of  the  last  week  in  September  that  the  Germans 

170 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    171 

seriously  set  to  work  destroying  its  forti- 
fications. When  they  did  begin,  however, 
their  great  siege-pieces  pounded  the  forts  as 
steadily  and  remorselessly  as  a  trip-hammer 
pounds  a  bar  of  iron.  At  the  time  the  Belgian 
General  Staff  believed  that  the  Germans  were 
using  the  same  giant  howitzers  which  demol- 
ished the  forts  at  Liege,  but  in  this  they  were 
mistaken,  for,  as  it  transpired  later,  the  Antwerp 
fortifications  owed  their  destruction  to  Aus- 
trian guns  served  by  Austrian  artillerymen. 
Now,  guns  of  this  size  can  only  be  fired  from 
specially  prepared  concrete  beds,  and  these 
beds,  as  we  afterward  learned,  had  been  built 
during  the  preceding  month  behind  the  em- 
bankment of  the  railway  which  runs  from 
Malines  to  Louvain,  thus  accounting  for  the 
tenacity  with  which  the  Germans  had  held 
this  railway  despite  repeated  attempts  to  dis- 
lodge them.  At  this  stage  of  the  investment 
the  Germans  were  firing  at  a  range  of  upwards 
of  eight  miles,  while  the  Belgians  had  no 
artillery  that  was  effective  at  more  than  six. 
Add  to  this  the  fact  that  the  German  fire  was 
remarkably  accurate,  being  controlled  and 
constantly  corrected  by  observers  stationed  in 


172       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

balloons,  and  that  the  German  shells  were 
loaded  with  an  explosive  having  greater  destruc- 
tive properties  than  either  cordite  or  shimose 
powder,  and  it  will  be  seen  how  hopeless  was 
the  Belgian  position. 

The  scenes  along  the  Lierre-St.  Catherine- 
Waelhem  sector,  against  which  the  Germans 
at  first  focussed  their  attack,  were  impressive 
and  awesome  beyond  description.  Against  a 
livid  sky  rose  pillars  of  smoke  from  burning 
villages.  The  air  was  filled  with  shrieking 
shell  and  bursting  shrapnel.  The  deep- 
mouthed  roar  of  the  guns  in  the  forts  and  the 
angry  bark  of  the  Belgian  field-batteries  were 
answered  at  intervals  by  the  shattering  crash 
of  the  German  high-explosive  shells.  When 
one  of  these  big  shells — the  soldiers  dubbed 
them  "Antwerp  expresses" — struck  in  a  field 
it  sent  up  a  geyser  of  earth  two  hundred  feet 
in  height.  When  they  dropped  in  a  river  or 
canal,  as  sometimes  happened,  there  was  a 
waterspout.  And  when  they  dropped  in  a 
village,  that  village  disappeared  from  the  map. 

While  we  were  watching  the  bombardment 
from  a  rise  in  the  Waelhem  road  a  shell  burst 
in  the  hamlet  of  Waerloos,  whose  red-brick 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    173 

houses  were  clustered  almost  at  our  feet.  A 
few  minutes  later  a  procession  of  fugitive 
villagers  came  plodding  up  the  cobble-paved 
highway.  It  was  headed  by  an  ashen-faced 
peasant  pushing  a  wheelbarrow  with  a  weeping 
woman  clinging  to  his  arm.  In  the  wheel- 
barrow, atop  a  pile  of  hastily  collected  house- 
hold goods,  was  sprawled  the  body  of  a  little 
boy.  He  could  not  have  been  more  than 
seven.  His  little  knickerbockered  legs  and 
play-worn  shoes  protruded  grotesquely  from 
beneath  a  heap  of  bedding.  When  they  lifted 
it  we  could  see  where  the  shell  had  hit  him. 
Beside  the  dead  boy  sat  his  sister,  a  tot  of 
three,  with  blood  trickling  from  a  flesh-wound 
in  her  face.  She  was  still  clinging  convulsively 
to  a  toy  lamb  which  had  once  been  white  but 
whose  fleece  was  now  turned  to  crimson. 
Some  one  passed  round  a  hat  and  we  awkwardly 
tried  to  express  our  sympathy  through  the 
medium  of  silver.  After  a  little  pause  they 
started  on  again,  the  father  stolidly  pushing 
the  wheelbarrow,  with  its  pathetic  load, 
before  him.  It  was  the  only  home  that  family 
had. 

One  of  the  bravest  acts  that  I  have  ever 


174       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

seen  was  performed  by  an  American  woman 
during  the  bombardment  of  Waelhem.  Her 
name  was  Mrs.  Winterbottom;  she  was  origi- 
nally from  Boston,  and  had  married  an  English 
army  officer.  When  he  went  to  the  front  in 
France  she  went  to  the  front  in  Belgium, 
bringing  over  her  car,  which  she  drove  herself, 
and  placing  it  at  the  disposal  of  the  British 
Field  Hospital.  After  the  fort  of  Waelhem 
had  been  silenced  and  such  of  the  garrison  as 
were  able  to  move  had  been  withdrawn,  word 
was  received  at  ambulance  headquarters  that 
a  number  of  dangerously  wounded  had  been 
left  behind  and  that  they  would  die  unless 
they  received  immediate  attention.  To  reach 
the  fort  it  was  necessary  to  traverse  nearly 
two  miles  of  road  swept  by  shell-fire.  Before 
any  one  realized  what  was  happening  a  big 
gray  car  shot  down  the  road  with  the  slender 
figure  of  Mrs.  Winterbottom  at  the  wheel. 
Clinging  to  the  running-board  was  her  English 
chauffeur  and  beside  her  sat  my  little  Kansas 
photographer,  Donald  Thompson.  Though 
the  air  was  filled  with  the  fleecy  white  patches 
which  look  like  cotton-wool  but  are  really  burst- 
ing shrapnel,  Thompson  told  me  afterward 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    175 

that  Mrs.  Winterbottom  was  as  cool  as 
though  she  were  driving  down  her  native 
Commonwealth  Avenue  on  a  Sunday  morning. 
When  they  reached  the  fort  shells  were  falling 
all  about  them,  but  they  filled  the  car  with 
wounded  men  and  Mrs.  Winterbottom  started 
back  with  her  blood-soaked  freight  for  the 
Belgian  lines. 

Thompson  remained  in  the  fort  to  take 
pictures.  When  darkness  fell  he  made  his  way 
back  to  the  village  of  Waelhem,  where  he  found 
a  regiment  of  Belgian  infantry.  In  one  of 
the  soldiers  Thompson  recognized  a  man  who, 
before  the  war,  had  been  a  waiter  in  the 
St.  Regis  Hotel  in  New  York  and  who  had 
been  detailed  to  act  as  his  guide  and  interpreter 
during  the  fighting  before  Termonde.  This 
man  took  Thompson  into  a  wine-shop  where  a 
detachment  of  soldiers  was  quartered,  gave  him 
food,  and  spread  straw  upon  the  floor  for  him 
to  sleep  on.  Shortly  after  midnight  a  forty- 
two  centimetre  shell  struck  the  building.  Of 
the  soldiers  who  were  sleeping  in  the  same 
room  as  Thompson  nine  were  killed  and  fifteen 
more  who  were  sleeping  up-stairs,  the  ex-waiter 
among  them.  Thompson  told  me  that  when 


176       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

the  ceiling  gave  way  and  the  mangled  corpses 
came  tumbling  down  upon  him,  he  ran  up  the 
street  with  his  hands  above  his  head,  scream- 
ing like  a  madman.  He  met  an  officer  whom 
he  knew  and  they  ran  down  the  street 
together,  hoping  to  get  out  of  the  doomed 
town.  Just  then  a  projectile  from  one  of  the 
German  siege-guns  tore  down  the  long,  straight 
street,  a  few  yards  above  their  heads.  The 
blast  of  air  which  it  created  was  so  terrific 
that  it  threw  them  down.  Thompson  said 
that  it  was  like  standing  close  to  the  edge  of 
the  platform  at  a  wayside  station  when  the 
Empire  State  Express  goes  by.  When  his 
nerve  came  back  to  him  he  pulled  a  couple  of 
cigars  out  of  his  pocket  and  offered  one  to  the 
officer.  Their  hands  trembled  so,  he  said 
afterward,  that  they  used  up  half  a  box  of 
matches  before  they  could  get  their  cigars 
lighted. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  most  bizarre 
incident  I  saw  during  the  bombardment  of 
the  outer  forts  was  the  flight  of  the  women 
inmates  of  a  madhouse  at  Duffel.  There  were 
three  hundred  women  in  the  institution,  many 
of  them  violently  insane,  and  the  nuns  in 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    177 

charge,  assisted  by  soldiers,  had  to  take  them 
across  a  mile  of  open  country,  under  a  rain  of 
shells,  to  a  waiting  train.  I  shall  not  soon  for- 
get the  picture  of  that  straggling  procession 
winding  its  slow  way  across  the  stubble-covered 
fields.  Every  few  seconds  a  shell  would  burst 
above  it  or  in  front  of  it  or  behind  it  with  a 
deafening  explosion.  Yet,  despite  the  frantic 
efforts  of  the  nuns  and  soldiers,  the  women 
would  not  be  hurried.  When  a  shell  burst 
some  of  them  would  scream  and  cower  or  start 
to  run,  but  more  of  them  would  stop  in  their 
tracks  and  gibber  and  laugh  and  clap  their 
hands  like  excited  children.  Then  the  soldiers 
would  curse  under  their  breath  and  push  them 
roughly  forward  and  the  nuns  would  plead 
with  them  in  their  soft,  low  voices,  to  hurry, 
hurry,  hurry.  We,  who  were  watching  the 
scene,  thought  that  few  of  them  would  reach 
the  train  alive,  yet  not  one  was  killed  or 
wounded.  The  Arabs  are  right:  the  mad  are 
under  God's  protection. 

One  of  the  most  inspiring  features  of  the 
campaign  in  Belgium  was  the  heroism  displayed 
by  the  priests  and  the  members  of  the  religious 
orders.  Village  cures  in  their  black  cassocks 


178        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

and  shovel  hats,  and  monks  in  sandals  and 
brown  woollen  robes  were  everywhere.  I  saw 
them  in  the  trenches  exhorting  the  soldiers  to 
fight  to  the  last  for  God  and  the  King;  I  saw 
them  going  out  on  to  the  battle-field  with 
stretchers  to  gather  the  wounded  under  a  fire 
which  made  veterans  seek  shelter;  I  saw  them 
in  the  villages  where  the  big  shells  were  falling, 
helping  to  carry  away  the  ill  and  the  aged; 
I  saw  them  in  the  hospitals  taking  farewell 
messages  and  administering  the  last  sacrament 
to  the  dying;  I  even  saw  them,  rifle  in  hand, 
on  the  firing-line,  fighting  for  the  existence 
of  the  nation.  To  these  soldiers  of  the  Lord 
I  raise  my  hat  in  respect  and  admiration.  The 
people  of  Belgium  owe  them  a  debt  that  they 
can  never  repay. 

In  the  days  before  the  war  it  was  commonly 
said  that  the  Church  was  losing  ground  in 
Belgium;  that  religion  was  gradually  being 
ousted  by  socialism.  If  this  were  so,  I  saw  no 
sign  of  it  in  the  nation's  days  of  trial.  Time 
and  time  again  I  saw  soldiers  before  going  into 
battle  drop  on  their  knees  and  cross  themselves 
and  murmur  a  hasty  prayer.  Even  the  throngs 
of  terrified  fugitives,  flying  from  their  burning 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    179 

villages,  would  pause  in  their  flight  to  kneel 
before  the  little  shrines  along  the  wayside. 
I  am  convinced,  indeed,  that  the  ruthless 
destruction  of  religious  edifices  by  the  Germans 
and  the  brutality  which  they  displayed  toward 
priests  and  members  of  the  religious  orders 
were  more  responsible  than  any  one  thing  for 
the  desperate  resistance  which  they  met  with 
from  the  Belgian  peasantry. 

By  the  afternoon  of  October  3  things  were 
looking  very  black  for  Antwerp.  The  forts 
composing  the  Lierre-Waelhem  sector  of  the 
outer  line  of  defences  had  been  pounded  into 
silence  by  the  German  siege-guns;  a  strong 
German  force,  pushing  through  the  breach 
thus  made,  had  succeeded  in  crossing  the 
Nethe  in  the  face  of  desperate  opposition; 
the  Belgian  troops,  after  a  fortnight  of  con- 
tinuous fighting,  were  at  the  point  of  exhaus- 
tion; the  hospitals  were  swamped  by  the 
streams  of  wounded  which  for  days  past  had 
been  pouring  in;  over  the  city  hung  a  cloud 
of  despondency  and  gloom,  for  the  people, 
though  kept  in  complete  ignorance  of  the  true 
state  of  affairs,  seemed  oppressed  with  a  sense 
of  impending  disaster. 


i8o       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

When  I  returned  that  evening  to  the  Hotel 
St.  Antoine  from  the  battle  front,  which  was 
then  barely  half  a  dozen  miles  outside  the  city, 
the  manager  stopped  me  as  I  was  entering  the 

'lift. 

"Are  you  leaving  with  the  others,  Mr. 
Powell  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Leaving  for  where?  With  what  others?'* 
I  asked  sharply. 

"Hadn't  you  heard?"  he  answered  in  some 
confusion.  "The  members  of  the  Govern- 
ment and  the  diplomatic  corps  are  leaving 
for  Ostend  by  special  steamer  at  seven  in  the 
morning.  It  has  just  been  decided  at  a  Cabinet 
meeting.  But  don't  mention  it  to  a  soul. 
No  one  is  to  know  it  until  they  are  safely  gone.  * 

I  remember  that  as  I  continued  to  my  room 
the  corridors  smelled  of  smoke,  and  upon 
inquiring  its  cause  I  learned  that  the  British 
Minister,  Sir  Francis  Villiers,  and  his  secre- 
taries were  burning  papers  in  the  rooms  occu- 
pied by  the  British  Legation.  The  Russian 
Minister,  who  was  superintending  the  packing 
of  his  trunks  in  the  hall,  stopped  me  to  say 
good-by.  Imagine  my  surprise,  then,  upon  go- 
ing down  to  breakfast  the  following  morning, 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    181 

to  meet  Count  Goblet  d'Alviella,  the  Vice- 
President  of  the  Senate  and  a  Minister  of  State, 
leaving  the  dining-room. 

"Why,  Count!"  I  exclaimed,  "I  had  sup- 
posed that  you  were  well  on  your  way  to  Ostend 
by  this  time." 

"We  had  expected  to  be,"  explained  the 
venerable  statesman,  "but  at  four  o'clock  this 
morning  the  British  Minister  sent  us  word 
that  Winston  Churchill  had  started  for  Ant- 
werp and  asking  us  to  wait  and  hear  what  he 
has  to  say." 

At  one  o'clock  that  afternoon  a  big  drab- 
colored  touring-car  filled  with  British  naval 
officers  tore  up  the  Place  de  Meir,  its  horn 
sounding  a  hoarse  warning,  took  the  turn  into 
the  narrow  Marche  aux  Souliers  on  two 
wheels,  and  drew  up  in  front  of  the  hotel. 
Before  the  car  had  fairly  come  to  a  stop  the 
door  of  the  tonneau  was  thrown  violently  open 
and  out  jumped  a  smooth-faced,  sandy-haired, 
stoop-shouldered,  youthful-looking  man  in 
the  undress  Trinity  House  uniform.  There 
was  no  mistaking  who  it  was.  It  was 
the  Right  Hon.  Winston  Churchill.  As  he 
darted  into  the  crowded  lobby,  which,  as 


1 82        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

usual  at  the  luncheon  hour,  was  filled  with 
Belgian,  French,  and  British  staff-officers,  di- 
plomatists, Cabinet  Ministers,  and  correspond- 
ents, he  flung  his  arms  out  in  a  nervous,  char- 
acteristic gesture,  as  though  pushing  his  way 
through  a  crowd.  It  was  a  most  spectacular 
entrance  and  reminded  me  for  all  the  world 
of  a  scene  in  a  melodrama  where  the  hero 
dashes  up,  bareheaded,  on  a  foam-flecked 
horse,  and  saves  the  heroine  or  the  old  home- 
stead or  the  family  fortune,  as  the  case  may 
be. 

While  lunching  with  Sir  Francis  Villiers  and 
the  staff  of  the  British  Legation,  two  English 
correspondents  approached  and  asked  Mr. 
Churchill  for  an  interview. 

"I  will  not  talk  to  you,"  he  almost  shouted, 
bringing  his  fist  down  upon  the  table.  "You 
have  no  business  to  be  in  Belgium  at  this  time. 
Get  out  of  the  country  at  once." 

It  happened  that  my  table  was  so  close 
that  I  could  not  help  but  overhear  the  request 
and  the  response,  and  I  remember  remark- 
ing to  the  friends  who  were  dining  with  me: 
"Had  Mr.  Churchill  said  that  to  me,  I  should 
have  answered  him,  'I  have  as  much  business 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    183 

in   Belgium   at  this  time,   sir,   as  you  had   in 
Cuba   during  the   Spanish-American   War." 

An  hour  later  I  was  standing  in  the  lobby 
talking  to  M.  de  Vos,  the  burgomaster  of 
Antwerp,  M.  Louis  Franck,  the  Antwerp 
member  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  Ameri- 
can Consul-General  Diederich  and  Vice-ConsuI- 
General  Sherman,  when  Mr.  Churchill  rushed 
past  us  on  his  way  to  his  room.  He  impressed 
one  as  being  always  in  a  tearing  hurry.  The 
burgomaster  stopped  him,  introduced  himself, 
and  expressed  his  anxiety  regarding  the  fate 
of  the  city.  Before  he  had  finished  Churchill 
was  part-way  up  the  stairs. 

"I  think  everything  will  be  all  right  now, 
Mr.  Burgomaster,"  he  called  down  in  a  voice 
which  could  be  distinctly  heard  throughout 
the  lobby.  "You  needn't  worry.  We're  go- 
ing to  save  the  city." 

Whereupon  most  of  the  civilians  present 
heaved  sighs  of  relief.  They  felt  that  a  real 
sailor  had  taken  the  wheel.  Those  of  us  who 
were  conversant  with  the  situation  were  also 
relieved  because  we  took  it  for  granted  that 
Mr.  Churchill  would  not  have  made  so  con- 
fident and  public  an  assertion  unless  ample 


1 84       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

reinforcements  in  men  and  guns  were  on  the 
way.  Even  then  the  words  of  this  energetic, 
impetuous  young  man  did  not  entirely  reassure 
me,  for  from  the  windows  of  my  room  I  could 
hear  the  German  guns  quite  plainly.  They 
had  come  appreciably  nearer. 

That  afternoon  and  the  three  days  following 
Mr.  Churchill  spent  in  inspecting  the  Belgian 
position.  He  repeatedly  exposed  himself  upon 
the  firing-line  and  on  one  occasion,  near  Wael- 
hem,  had  a  rather  narrow  escape  from  a  burst 
of  shrapnel.  For  some  unexplainable  reason 
the  British  censorship  cast  a  veil  of  profound 
secrecy  over  Mr.  Churchill's  visit  to  Antwerp. 
The  story  of  his  arrival,  just  as  I  have  related 
it  above,  I  telegraphed  that  same  night  to  the 
New  York  World,  yet  it  never  got  through, 
nor  did  any  of  the  other  despatches  which  I 
sent  during  his  four  days'  visit.  In  fact,  it 
was  not  until  after  Antwerp  had  fallen  that 
the  British  public  was  permitted  to  learn  that 
the  Sea  Lord  had  been  in  Belgium. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  promises  of  rein- 
forcements given  to  the  King  and  the  Cabinet 
by  Mr.  Churchill,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
Government  would  have  departed  for  Ostend 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    185 

when  originally  planned  and  that  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Antwerp,  thus  warned  of  the  extreme 
gravity  of  the  situation,  would  have  had  ample 
time  to  leave  the  city  with  a  semblance  of 
comfort  and  order,  for  the  railways  leading  to 
Ghent  and  to  the  Dutch  frontier  were  still  in 
operation  and  the  highways  were  then  not 
blocked  by  a  retreating  army. 

The  first  of  the  promised  reinforcements 
arrived  on  Sunday  evening  by  special  train 
from  Ostend.  They  consisted  of  a  brigade  of 
the  Royal  Marines,  perhaps  two  thousand  men 
in  all,  well-drilled  and  well-armed,  and  several 
heavy  guns.  They  were  rushed  to  the  southern 
front  and  immediately  sent  into  the  trenches 
to  relieve  the  worn-out  Belgians.  On  Monday 
and  Tuesday  the  balance  of  the  British  expe- 
ditionary force,  consisting  of  between  five  and 
six  thousand  men  of  the  Volunteer  Naval 
Reserve,  arrived  from  the  coast,  their  ammuni- 
tion and  supplies  being  brought  by  road,  via 
Bruges  and  Ghent,  in  London  motor-'buses. 
When  this  procession  of  lumbering  vehicles, 
placarded  with  advertisements  of  teas,  tobaccos, 
whiskeys,  and  current  theatrical  attractions 
and  bearing  the  signs  "Bank,"  "Holborn," 


1 86       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

"Piccadilly,"  "Shepherd's  Bush,"  "Strand," 
rumbled  through  the  streets  of  Antwerp,  the 
populace  went  mad.  The  British  had  come  at 
last !  The  city  was  saved  !  "Five  les  Anglais! 
Five  Tommy  Atkins!" 

I  witnessed  the  detrainment  of  the  naval 
brigades  at  Vieux  Dieu  and  accompanied  them 
to  the  trenches  north  of  Lierre.  As  they 
tramped  down  the  tree-bordered,  cobble- 
paved  highroad,  we  heard,  for  the  first  time 
in  Belgium,  the  lilting  refrain  of  that  music- 
hall  ballad  which  had  become  the  English 
soldiers'  marching  song: 

"  It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary, 

It's  a  long  way  to  go  ; 
It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary — 

To  the  sweetest  girl  I  know  ! 
Good-by,  Piccadilly  ! 

Farewell,  Leicester  Square  I 
It's  a  long)  long  way  to  Tipperary ; 

But  my  heart's  right  there  ! " 

Many  and  many  a  one  of  the  light-hearted  lads 
with  whom  I  marched  down  the  Lierre  road 
on  that  October  afternoon  were  destined  never 
again  to  feel  beneath  their  feet  the  flags  of 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    187 

Piccadilly,  never  again  to  lounge  in  Leicester 
Square. 

They  were  as  clean-limbed,  pleasant-faced, 
wholesome-looking  a  lot  of  young  Englishmen 
as  you  would  find  anywhere,  but  to  any  one 
who  had  had  military  experience  it  was  evident 
that,  despite  the  fact  that  they  were  vigorous 
and  courageous  and  determined  to  do  their 
best,  they  were  not  "first-class  fighting  men." 
To  win  in  war,  as  in  the  prize-ring,  something 
more  than  vigor  and  courage  and  determina- 
tion are  required;  to  those  qualities  must  be 
added  experience  and  training,  and  experience 
and  training  were  precisely  what  those  naval 
reservists  lacked.  Moreover,  their  equipment 
left  much  to  be  desired.  For  example,  only 
a  very  small  proportion  had  pouches  to  carry 
the  regulation  one  hundred  and  fifty  rounds. 
They  were,  in  fact,  equipped  very  much  as 
many  of  the  American  militia  organizations 
were  equipped  when  suddenly  called  out  for 
strike  duty  in  the  days  before  the  reorgani- 
zation of  the  National  Guard.  Even  the 
officers — those,  at  least,  with  whom  I  talked 
— seemed  to  be  as  deficient  in  field  experience 
as  the  men.  Yet  these  raw  troops  were 


i88       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

rushed  into  trenches  which  were  in  most  cases 
unprotected  by  head  covers,  and,  though  un- 
supported by  effective  artillery,  they  held  those 
trenches  for  three  days  under  as  murderous  a 
shell  fire  as  I  have  ever  seen  and  then  fell  back 
in  perfect  order.  What  the  losses  of  the  Naval 
Division  were  I  do  not  know.  In  Antwerp  it 
was  generally  understood  that  very  close  to  a 
fifth  of  the  entire  force  was  killed  or  wounded — 
upwards  of  three  hundred  cases  were,  I  was  told, 
treated  in  one  hospital  alone — and  the  British 
Government  officially  announced  that  sixteen 
hundred  were  forced  across  the  frontier  and 
interned  in  Holland. 

No  small  part  in  the  defence  of  the  city 
was  played  by  the  much-talked-about  armored 
train,  which  was  built  under  the  supervision 
of  Lieutenant-Commander  Littlejohn  in  the 
yards  of  the  Antwerp  Engineering  Company 
at  Hoboken.  The  train  consisted  of  four 
large  coal  trucks  with  sides  of  armor-plate 
sufficiently  high  to  afford  protection  to  the 
crews  of  the  4.7  naval  guns — six  of  which  were 
brought  from  England  for  the  purpose,  though 
there  was  only  time  to  mount  four  of  them — 
and  between  each  gun  truck  was  a  heavily 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    189 

armored  baggage-car  for  ammunition,  the 
whole  being  drawn  by  a  small  locomotive, 
also  steel-protected.  The  guns  were  served ' 
by  Belgian  artillerymen  commanded  by  British 
gunners  and  each  gun  truck  carried,  in  addition, 
a  detachment  of  infantry  in  the  event  of  the 
enemy  getting  to  close  quarters.  Personally, 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  chief  value 
of  this  novel  contrivance  lay  in  the  moral 
encouragement  it  lent  to  the  defence,  for  its 
guns,  though  more  powerful,  certainly,  than 
anything  that  the  Belgians  possessed,  were 
wholly  outclassed,  both  in  range  and  caliber, 
by  the  German  artillery.  The  German  officers 
whom  I  questioned  on  the  subject  after  the 
occupation  told  me  that  the  fire  of  the  armored 
train  caused  them  no  serious  concern  and  did 
comparatively  little  damage. 

By  Tuesday  night  a  boy  scout  could  have 
seen  that  the  position  of  Antwerp  was  hope- 
less. The  Austrian  siege-guns  had  smashed 
and  silenced  the  chain  of  supposedly  impreg- 
nable forts  to  the  south  of  the  city  with  the 
same  businesslike  despatch  with  which  the 
same  type  of  guns  had  smashed  and  silenced 
those  other  supposedly  impregnable  forts  at 


190       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

Liege  and  Namur.  Through  the  opening 
thus  made  a  German  army  corps  had  poured 
to  fling  itself  against  the  second  line  of  defence, 
formed  by  the  Ruppel  and  the  Nethe.  Across 
the  Nethe,  under  cover  of  a  terrific  artillery 
fire,  the  Germans  threw  their  pontoon  bridges, 
and  when  the  first  bridges  were  destroyed  by 
the  Belgian  guns  they  built  others,  and  when 
these  were  destroyed  in  turn  they  tried  again, 
and  at  the  third  attempt  they  succeeded.  With 
the  helmeted  legions  once  across  the  river,  it 
was  all  over  but  the  shouting,  and  no  one  knew 
it  better  than  the  Belgians,  yet,  heartened  by 
the  presence  of  the  little  handful  of  English,  they 
fought  desperately,  doggedly  on.  Their  forts 
pounded  to  pieces  by  guns  which  they  could  not 
answer,  their  ranks  thinned  by  a  murderous  rain 
of  shot  and  shell,  the  men  heavy-footed  and 
heavy-eyed  from  lack  of  sleep,  the  horses 
staggering  from  exhaustion,  the  ambulance 
service  broken  down,  the  hospitals  helpless 
before  the  flood  of  wounded,  the  trenches 
littered  with  the  dead  and  dying,  they  still  held 
back  the  German  legions. 

By    this    time    the    region    to    the    south 
of  Antwerp    had    been    transformed    from    a 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    191 

peaceful,  smiling  countryside  into  a  land  of 
death  and  desolation.  It  looked  as  though  it 
had  been  swept  by  a  great  hurricane,  filled 
with  lightning  which  had  missed  nothing. 
The  blackened  walls  of  what  had  once  been 
prosperous  farmhouses,  haystacks  turned  into 
heaps  of  smoking  carbon,  fields  slashed  across 
with  trenches,  roads  rutted  and  broken  by  the 
great  wheels  of  guns  and  transport  wagons — • 
these  scenes  were  on  every  hand.  In  the  towns 
and  villages  along  the  Nethe,  where  the 
fighting  was  heaviest,  the  walls  of  houses  had 
fallen  into  the  streets  and  piles  of  furniture, 
mattresses,  agricultural  machinery,  and  farm 
carts  showed  where  the  barricades  and  machine 
guns  had  been.  The  windows  of  many  of  the 
houses  were  stuffed  with  mattresses  and  pillows, 
behind  which  the  riflemen  had  made  a  stand. 
Lierre  and  Waelhem  and  Duffel  were  like 
sieves  dripping  blood.  Corpses  were  strewn 
everywhere.  Some  of  the  dead  were  spread- 
eagled  on  their  backs  as  though  exhausted  after 
a  long  march,  some  were  twisted  and  crumpled 
in  attitudes  grotesque  and  horrible,  some  were 
propped  up  against  the  walls  of  houses  to 
which  they  ^iad  tried  to  crawl  in  their  agony. 


192       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

All  of  them  stared  at  nothing  with  awful, 
unseeing  eyes.  It  was  one  of  the  scenes  that 
I  should  like  to  forget.  But  I  never  can. 

On  Tuesday  evening  General  de  Guise,  the 
military  Governor  of  Antwerp,  informed  the 
Government  that  the  Belgian  position  was 
fast  becoming  untenable  and,  acting  on  this 
information,  the  capital  of  Belgium  was  trans- 
ferred from  Antwerp  to  Ostend,  the  members 
of  the  Government  and  the  diplomatic  corps 
leaving  at  daybreak  on  Wednesday  by  special 
steamer,  while  at  the  same  time  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill  departed  for  the  coast  by  auto- 
mobile under  convoy  of  an  armored  motor- 
car. His  last  act  was  to  order  the  destruction 
of  the  condensers  of  the  German  vessels  in 
the  harbor,  for  which  the  Germans,  upon 
occupying  the  city,  demanded  an  indemnity 
of  twenty  million  francs. 

As  late  as  Wednesday  morning  the  great 
majority  of  the  inhabitants  of  Antwerp  re- 
mained in  total  ignorance  of  the  real  state  of 
affairs.  Morning  after  morning  the  Matin 
and  the  Metropole  had  published  official  com- 
muniques categorically  denying  that  any  of  the 
forts  had  been  silenced  and  asserting  in  the 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    193 

most  positive  terms  that  the  enemy  was  being 
held  in  check  all  along  the  line.  As  a  result 
of  this  policy  of  denial  and  deception,  the 
people  of  Antwerp  went  to  sleep  on  Tuesday 
night  calmly  confident  that  in  a  few  days  more 
the  Germans  would  raise  the  siege  from  sheer 
discouragement  and  depart.  Imagine  what 
happened,  then,  when  they  awoke  on  Wednes- 
day morning,  October  7,  to  learn  that  the 
Government  had  stolen  away  between  two 
days  without  issuing  so  much  as  a  word  of 
warning,  and  to  find  staring  at  them  from 
every  wall  and  hoarding  proclamations  signed 
by  the  military  Governor  announcing  that  the 
bombardment  of  the  city  was  imminent,  urging 
all  who  were  able  to  leave  instantly,  and 
advising  those  who  remained  to  shelter  them- 
selves behind  sand-bags  in  their  cellars.  It 
was  like  waiting  until  the  entire  first  floor  of  a 
house  was  in  flames  and  the  occupants'  means 
of  escape  almost  cut  off",  before  shouting 
"Fire!" 

No  one  who  witnessed  the  exodus  of  the 
population  from  Antwerp  will  ever  forget  it. 
No  words  can  adequately  describe  it.  It  was 
not  a  flight;  it  was  a  stampede.  The  sober, 


194       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

slow-moving,  slow-thinking  Flemish  towns- 
people were  suddenly  transformed  into  a  herd 
of  terror-stricken  cattle.  So  complete  was 
the  German  enveloping  movement  that  only 
three  avenues  of  escape  remained  open:  west- 
ward, through  St.  Nicolas  and  Lokeren,  to 
Ghent;  northeastward  across  the  frontier 
into  Holland;  down  the  Scheldt  toward 
Flushing.  Of  the  five  hundred  thousand 
fugitives — for  the  exodus  was  not  confined  to 
the  citizens  of  Antwerp  but  included  the 
entire  population  of  the  countryside  for 
twenty  miles  around — probably  fully  a  quarter 
of  a  million  escaped  by  river.  Anything  that 
could  float  was  pressed  into  service:  merchant 
steamers,  dredgers,  ferry-boats,  scows,  barges, 
canal-boats,  tugs,  fishing  craft,  yachts,  rowing 
boats,  launches,  even  extemporized  rafts.  There 
was  no  attempt  to  enforce  order.  The  fear- 
frantic  people  piled  aboard  until  there  was 
not  even  standing-room  on  the  vessels'  decks. 
Of  all  these  thousands  who  fled  by  river,  but 
an  insignificant  proportion  were  provided  with 
food  or  warm  clothing  or  had  space  in  which 
to  lie  down.  Yet  through  two  nights  they 
huddled  together  on  the  open  decks  in  the 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    195 

cold  and  the  darkness  while  the  great  guns 
tore  to  pieces  the  city  they  had  left  behind 
them.  As  I  passed  up  the  crowded  river  in 
my  launch  on  the  morning  after  the  first 
night's  bombardment  we  seemed  to  be  followed 
by  a  wave  of  sound — a  great  murmur  of  min- 
gled anguish  and  misery  and  fatigue  and  hun- 
ger from  the  homeless  thousands  adrift  upon 
the  waters. 

The  scenes  along  the  highways  were  even 
more  appalling,  for  here  the  retreating  soldiery 
and  the  fugitive  civilians  were  mixed  in  in- 
extricable confusion.  By  mid-afternoon  on 
Wednesday  the  road  from  Antwerp  to  Ghent, 
a  distance  of  forty  miles,  was  a  solid  mass  of 
refugees,  and  the  same  was  true  of  every  road, 
every  lane,  every  footpath  leading  in  a  westerly 
or  a  northerly  direction.  The  people  fled  in 
motor-cars  and  in  carriages,  in  delivery  wagons, 
in  moving  vans,  in  farm  carts,  in  omnibuses, 
in  vehicles  drawn  by  oxen,  by  donkeys,  even  by 
cows,  on  horseback,  on  bicycles,  and  there 
were  thousands  upon  thousands  afoot.  I  saw 
men  trundling  wheelbarrows  piled  high  with 
bedding  and  with  their  children  perched  upon 
the  bedding.  I  saw  sturdy  young  peasants 


196       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

carrying  their  aged  parents  in  their  arms. 
I  saw  women  of  fashion  in  fur  coats  and  high- 
heeled  shoes  staggering  along  clinging  to  the 
rails  of  the  caissons  or  to  the  ends  of  wagons. 
I  saw  white-haired  men  and  women  grasping 
the  harness  of  the  gun  teams  or  the  stirrup- 
leathers  of  the  troopers,  who,  themselves 
exhausted  from  many  days  of  fighting,  slept 
in  their  saddles  as  they  rode.  I  saw  springless 
farm  wagons  literally  heaped  with  wounded 
soldiers  with  piteous  white  faces;  the  bottoms 
of  the  wagons  leaked  and  left  a  trail  of  blood 
behind  them.  A  very  old  priest,  too  feeble  to 
walk,  was  trundled  by  two  young  priests  in  a 
hand-cart.  A  young  woman,  an  expectant 
mother,  was  tenderly  and  anxiously  helped  on 
by  her  husband.  One  of  the  saddest  features 
of  all  this  dreadful  procession  was  the  soldiers, 
many  of  them  wounded,  and  so  bent  with 
fatigue  from  many  days  of  marching  and  fight- 
ing that  they  could  hardly  raise  their  feet. 
jOne  infantryman  who  could  bear  his  boots  no 
'  longer  had  tied  them  to  the  cleaning-rod  of 
his  rifle.  Another  had  strapped  his  boots  to 
his  cowhide  knapsack  and  limped  forward  with 
his  swollen  feet  in  felt  slippers.  Here  were 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRITISH    197 

a  group  of  Capuchin  monks  abandoning 
their  monastery;  there  a  little  party  of 
white-faced  nuns  shepherding  the  flock  of  war- 
orphaned  children  who  had  been  intrusted 
to  their  care.  The  confusion  was  beyond  all 
imagination,  the  clamour  deafening:  the  rattle 
of  wheels,  the  throbbing  of  motors,  the  clatter 
of  hoofs,  the  cracking  of  whips,  the  curses  of 
the  drivers,  the  groans  of  the  wounded,  the  cries 
of  women,  the  whimpering  of  children,  threats, 
pleadings,  oaths,  screams,  imprecations,  and  al- 
ways the  monotonous  shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle  of 
countless  weary  feet. 

The  fields  and  the  ditches  between  which  these 
processions  of  disaster  passed  were  strewn  with 
the  prostrate  forms  of  those  who,  from  sheer 
exhaustion,  could  go  no  farther.  And  there  was 
no  food  for  them,  no  shelter.  Within  a  few  hours 
after  the  exodus  began  the  countryside  was 
as  bare  of  food  as  the  Sahara  is  of  grass.  Time 
after  time  I  saw  famished  fugitives  pause  at 
farmhouses  and  offer  all  of  their  pitifully  few 
belongings  for  a  loaf  of  bread;  but  the  kind- 
hearted  country  people,  with  tears  streaming 
down  their  cheeks,  could  only  shake  their 
heads  and  tell  them  that  they  had  long  since 


i98        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

given  all  their  food  away.  Old  men  and 
fashionably  gowned  women  and  wounded 
soldiers  went  out  into  the  fields  and  pulled  up 
turnips  and  devoured  them  raw — for  there  was 
nothing  else  to  eat.  During  a  single  night, 
near  a  small  town  on  the  Dutch  frontier, 
twenty  women  gave  birth  to  children  in  the 
open  fields.  No  one  will  ever  know  how 
many  people  perished  during  that  awful 
flight  from  hunger  and  exposure  and  exhaus- 
tion; many  more,  certainly,  than  lost  their 
lives  in  the  bombardment. 


VIII 
THE    FALL   OF   ANTWERP 

THE  bombardment  of  Antwerp  began 
about  ten  o'clock  on  the  evening  of 
Wednesday,  October  7.  The  first 
shell  to  fall  within  the  city  struck  a  house  in 
the  Berchem  district,  killing  a  fourteen-year-old 
boy  and  wounding  his  mother  and  little  sister. 
The  second  decapitated  a  street-sweeper  as 
he  was  running  for  shelter.  Throughout  the 
night  the  rain  of  death  continued  without 
cessation,  the  shells  falling  at  the  rate  of  four 
or  five  a  minute.  The  streets  of  the  city  were 
as  deserted  as  those  of  Pompeii.  The  few 
people  who  remained,  either  because  they 
were  willing  to  take  their  chances  or  because 
they  had  no  means  of  getting  away,  were 
cowering  in  their  cellars.  Though  the  gas 
)  and  electric  lights  were  out,  the  sky  was  rosy 
from  the  reflection  of  the  petrol-tanks  which 
the  Belgians  had  set  on  fire;  now  and  then 
a  shell  would  burst  with  the  intensity  of  mag- 
nesium, and  the  quivering  beams  of  two  search- 
lights on  the  forts  across  the  river  still  further  lit 

199 


200       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

up  the  ghastly  scene.  The  noise  was  deafening. 
The  buildings  seemed  to  rock  and  sway.  The 
very  pavements  trembled.  Mere  words  are 
inadequate  to  give  a  conception  of  the  horror 
of  it  all.  There  would  come  the  hungry 
whine  of  a  shell  passing  low  over  the  housetops, 
followed,  an  instant  later,  by  a  shattering 
crash,  and  the  whole  fafade  of  the  building 
that  had  been  struck  would  topple  into  the 
street  in  a  cascade  of  brick  and  stone  and  plaster. 
It  was  not  until  Thursday  night,  however, 
that  the  Germans  brought  their  famous  forty- 
two-centimetre  guns  into  action.  The  effect 
of  these  monster  cannon  was  appalling.  So 
tremendous  was  the  detonation  that  it  sounded 
as  though  the  German  batteries  were  firing 
salvoes.  The  projectiles  they  were  now  rain:ng 
upon  the  city  weighed  a  ton  apiece  and  had 
the  destructive  properties  of  that  much  nitro- 
glycerine. We  could  hear  them  as  they  came. 
They  made  a  roar  in  the  air  which  sounded 
at  first  like  an  approaching  express-train,  but 
which  rapidly  rose  in  volume  until  the  at- 
mosphere quivered  with  the  howl  of  a  cy- 
clone. Then  would  come  an  explosion  which 
jarred  the  city  to  its  very  foundation.  Over 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP       201 

the  shivering  earth  rolled  great  clouds  of  dust 
and  smoke.  When  one  of  these  terrible  pro- 
jectiles struck  a  building  it  did  not  merely  tear 
away  the  upper  stories  or  blow  a  gaping 
aperture  in  its  walls:  the  whole  building 
crumbled,  disintegrated,  collapsed,  as  though 
flattened  by  a  mighty  hand.  When  they 
exploded  in  the  open  street  they  not  only  tore 
a  hole  in  the  pavement  the  size  of  a  cottage 
cellar,  but  they  sliced  away  the  fa9ades  of  all 
the  houses  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  leaving 
their  interiors  exposed,  like  the  interiors  upon 
a  stage.  Compared  with  the  "forty-twos" 
the  shell  and  shrapnel  fire  of  the  first  night's 
bombardment  was  insignificant  and  harmless. 
The  thickest  masonry  was  crumpled  up  like  so 
much  cardboard.  The  stoutest  cellars  were 
no  protection  if  a  shell  struck  above  them. 
It  seemed  as  though  at  times  the  whole  city 
was  coming  down  about  our  ears.  Before  the 
bombardment  had  been  in  progress  a  dozen 
hours  there  was  scarcely  a  street  in  the  southern 
quarter  of  the  city — save  only  the  district 
occupied  by  wealthy  Germans,  whose  houses 
remained  untouched — which  was  not  ob- 
structed by  heaps  of  fallen  masonry.  The  main 


202       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

thoroughfares  were  strewn  with  fallen  electric- 
light  and  trolley  wires  and  shattered  poles 
and  branches  lopped  from  trees.  The  side- 
walks were  carpeted  with  broken  glass.  The 
air  was  heavy  with  the  acrid  fumes  of  smoke 
and  powder.  Abandoned  dogs  howled  mourn- 
fully before  the  doors  of  their  deserted  homes. 
From  a  dozen  quarters  of  the  city  columns  of 
smoke  by  day  and  pillars  of  fire  by  night  rose 
against  the  sky.  It  was  hell  with  the  lid  off — 
and  I  am  not  using  the  term  flippantly  either. 
Owing  to  circumstances — fortunate  or  un- 
fortunate, as  one  chooses  to  view  them — I  was 
not  in  Antwerp  during  the  first  night's  bom- 
bardment. You  must  understand  that  a  war 
correspondent,  no  matter  how  many  thrilling 
and  interesting  things  he  may  be  able  to 
witness,  is  valueless  to  the  paper  which  employs 
him  unless  he  is  able  to  get  to  the  end  of  a 
telegraph-wire  and  tell  the  readers  of  that 
newspaper  what  is  happening.  In  other  words, 
he  must  not  only  gather  the  news  but  he  must 
deliver  it.  Otherwise  his  usefulness  ceases. 
When,  therefore,  on  Wednesday  morning, 
the  telegraph  service  from  Antwerp  abruptly 
ended,  all  trains  and  boats  stopped  running,  and 
the  city  was  completely  cut  off  from  communi- 


THE   FALL  OF  ANTWERP        203 

cation  with  the  outside  world,  I  left  in  my 
car  for  Ghent,  where  the  telegraph  was  still 
in  operation,  to  file  my  despatches.  So  dense 
was  the  mass  of  retreating  soldiery  and  fugitive 
civilians  which  blocked  the  approaches  to  the 
pontoon  bridge,  that  it  took  me  four  hours  to 
get  across  the  Scheldt,  and  another  four  hours, 
owing  to  the  slow  driving  necessitated  by  the 
terribly  congested  roads,  to  cover  the  forty 
miles  to  Ghent.  I  had  sent  my  despatches, 
had  had  a  hasty  dinner,  and  wTas  on  the  point 
of  starting  back  to  Antwerp,  when  Mr. 
Johnson,  the  American  Consul  at  Ostend, 
called  me  up  by  telephone.  He  told  me  that 
the  Minister  of  War,  then  at  Ostend,  had  just 
sent  him  a  package  containing  the  keys  of 
buildings  and  dwellings  belonging  to  German 
residents  of  Antwerp  who  had  been  expelled 
at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  with  the  request 
that  they  be  transmitted  to  the  German 
commander  immediately  the  German  troops 
entered  the  city,  as  it  was  feared  that,  were 
these  places  found  to  be  locked,  it  might  lead 
to  the  doors  being  broken  open  and  thus  give 
the  Germans  a  pretext  for  sacking.  Mr. 
Johnson  asked  me  if  I  would  remain  in  Ghent 


204       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

until  he  could  come  through  in  his  car  with 
the  keys  and  if  I  would  assume  the  responsibil- 
ity of  seeing  that  the  keys  reached  the  Ger- 
man commander.  I  explained  to  Mr.  Johnson 
that  it  was  imperative  that  I  should  return  to 
Antwerp  immediately;  but  when  he  insisted 
that,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  clearly 
my  duty  to  take  the  keys  through  to  Antwerp, 
I  promised  to  await  his  arrival,  although  by  so 
doing  I  felt  that  I  was  imperilling  the  interests 
of  the  newspaper  which  was  employing  me. 
Owing  to  the  congested  condition  of  the  roads 
Mr.  Johnson  was  unable  to  reach  Ghent  until 
Thursday  morning.  By  this  time  the  high- 
road between  Ghent  and  Antwerp  was  utterly 
impassable — one  might  as  well  have  tried  to 
paddle  a  canoe  up  the  rapids  at  Niagara  as  to 
drive  a  car  against  the  current  of  that  river 
of  terrified  humanity — so,  taking  advantage 
of  comparatively  empty  by-roads,  I  succeeded 
in  reaching  Doel,  a  fishing  village  on  the  Scheldt 
a  dozen  miles  below  Antwerp,  by  noon  on 
Thursday. 

By  means  of  alternate  bribes  and  threats, 
Roos,  my  driver,  persuaded  a  boatman  to  take 
us  up  to  Antwerp  in  a  small  motor  launch 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP        205 

over  which,  as  a  measure  of  precaution,  I 
raised  an  American  flag.  As  long  as  memory 
lasts  there  will  remain  with  me,  sharp  and 
clear,  the  recollection  of  that  journey  up  the 
Scheldt,  the  surface  of  which  was  literally 
black  with  vessels  with  their  loads  of  silent 
misery.  It  was  well  into  the  afternoon  and 
the  second  day's  bombardment  was  at  its 
height  when  we  rounded  the  final  bend  in  the 
river  and  the  lace-like  tower  of  the  cathedral 
rose  before  us.  Shells  were  exploding  every 
few  seconds,  columns  of  gray-green  smoke 
rose  skyward,  the  air  reverberated  as  though 
to  a  continuous  peal  of  thunder.  As  we  ran 
alongside  the  deserted  quays  a  shell  burst  with 
a  terrific  crash  in  a  street  close  by,  and  our 
boatman,  panic-stricken,  suddenly  reversed  his 
engine  and  backed  into  the  middle  of  the  river. 
Roos  drew  his  pistol. 

"Go  ahead!"  he  commanded.  "Run  up 
to  the  quay  so  that  we  can  land."  Before  the 
grim  menace  of  the  automatic  the  man  sullenly 
obeyed. 

"I've  a  wife  and  family  at  Doel,"  he 
muttered.  "If  I'm  killed  there'll  be  no  one 
to  look  after  them." 


2o6       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

"I've  a  wife  and  family  in  America,"  I 
retorted.  "You're  taking  no  more  chances 
than  I  am." 

I  am  not  in  the  least  ashamed  to  admit, 
however,  that  as  we  ran  alongside  the  Red  Star 
quays — the  American  flag  was  floating  above 
them,  by  the  way — I  would  quite  willingly 
have  given  everything  I  possessed  to  have  been 
back  on  Broadway  again.  A  great  city  which 
has  suddenly  been  deserted  by  its  popu- 
lation is  inconceivably  depressing.  Add  to 
this  the  fact  that  every  few  seconds  a  shell 
would  burst  somewhere  behind  the  row  of 
buildings  that  screened  the  water-front,  and 
that  occasionally  one  would  clear  xthe  house- 
tops altogether  and,  moaning  over  our  heads, 
would  drop  into  the  river  and  send  up  a  great 
geyser,  and  you  will  understand  that  Antwerp 
was  not  exactly  a  cheerful  place  in  which  to 
land.  There  was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen  any- 
where. Such  of  the  inhabitants  as  remained 
had  taken  refuge  in  their  cellars,  and  just  at 
that  time  a  deep  cellar  would  have  looked 
extremely  good  to  me.  On  the  other  hand, 
as  I  argued  with  myself,  there  was  really  an 
exceedingly  small  chance  of  a  shell  exploding 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP        207 

on  the  particular  spot  where  I  happened  to 
be  standing,  and  if  it  did — well,  it  seemed 
more  dignified,  somehow,  to  be  killed  in  the 
open  than  to  be  crushed  to  death  in  a  cellar 
like  a  cornered  rat. 

About  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  bom- 
bardment slackened  for  a  time  and  the  in- 
habitants of  Antwerp's  underworld  began  to 
creep  out  of  their  subterranean  hiding-places 
and  slink  like  ghosts  along  the  quays  in  search 
of  food.  The  great  quantities  of  foodstuffs 
and  other  provisions  which  had  been  taken 
from  the  captured  German  vessels  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war  had  been  stored  in  hastily 
constructed  warehouses  upon  the  quays  and 
it  was  not  long  before  the  rabble,  undeterred 
by  the  fear  of  the  police  and  willing  to  chance 
the  shells,  had  broken  in  the  doors  and  were 
looting  to  their  hearts'  content.  As  a  man 
staggered  past  under  a  load  of  wine  bottles, 
tinned  goods,  and  cheeses,  our  boatman, 
who  by  this  time  had  become  reconciled  to 
sticking  by  us,  inquired  wistfully  if  he  might 
do  a  little  looting  too.  "We've  no  food  left 
down  the  river,"  he  urged,  "and  I  might 
just  as  well  get  some  of  those  provisions  for 


2o8        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

my  family  as  to  let  the  Germans  take  them." 
Upon  my  assenting  he  disappeared  into  the 
darkness  of  the  warehouse  with  a  hand  truck. 
He  was  not  the  sort  who  did  his  looting  by 
retail,  was  that  boatman.  By  midnight  Roos 
and  I  were  shivering  as  though  with  ague, 
for  the  night  had  turned  cold,  we  had  no  coats, 
and  we  had  been  without  food  since  leaving 
Ghent  that  morning.  "I'm  going  to  do  a  lit- 
tle looting  on  my  own  account,"  I  announced 
finally.  "I'm  half  frozen  and  almost  starved 
and  I'm  not  going  to  stand  around  here 
while  there's  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  over  in 
that  warehouse."  I  groped  my  way  through 
the  blackness  to  the  doorway  and  enter- 
ing, struck  a  match.  By  its  flickering  light 
I  saw  a  case  filled  with  bottles  in  straw  cas- 
ings. From  their  shape  they  looked  to  be 
bottles  of  champagne.  I  reached  for  one 
eagerly,  but  just  as  my  fingers  closed  about  it 
a  shell  burst  overhead.  At  least  the  crash 
was  so  terrific  that  it  seemed  as  though  it 
had  burst  overhead,  though  I  found  after- 
ward that  it  had  exploded  nearly  fifty  yards 
away.  I  ran  for  my  life,  clinging,  however, 
to  the  bottle.  "At  any  rate,  I've  found 


i  ne  DoruDarument  ol  Antwerp. 

Abandoned  and  starving  dogs  howled  mournfully  in  front  of  what 
had  once  been  their  homes. 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP       209 

something  to  drink,"  I  said  to  Roos  exultantly, 
when  my  heart  had  ceased  its  pounding.  Slip- 
ping off  the  straw  cover  I  struck  a  match  to  see 
the  result  of  my  maiden  attempt  at  looting. 
I  didn't  particularly  care  whether  it  was  wine 
or  brandy.  Either  would  have  tasted  good. 
It  was  neither.  It  was  a  bottle  of  pepsin 
bitters ! 

At  daybreak  we  started  at  full  speed  down 
the  river  for  Doel,  where  we  had  left  the  car, 
as  it  was  imperative  that  I  should  get  to  the 
end  of  a  telegraph-wire,  file  my  despatches, 
and  get  back  to  the  city.  They  told  me  at 
Doel  that  the  nearest  telegraph  office  was  at 
a  little  place  called  L'Ecluse,  on  the  Dutch 
frontier,  ten  miles  away.  We  were  assured 
that  there  was  a  good  road  all  the  way  and  that 
we  could  get  there  and  back  in  an  hour.  So 
we  could  have  in  ordinary  tirhes,  but  these  were 
extraordinary  times  and  the  Belgians,  in  order 
to  make  things  as  unpleasant  as  possible  for 
the  Germans,  had  opened  the  dikes  and  had 
begun  to  inundate  the  country.  When  we 
were  about  half-way  to  L'Ecluse,  therefore, 
we  found  our  way  barred  by  a  miniature  river 
and  no  means  of  crossing  it.  It  was  in  such 


210       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

circumstances  that  Roos  was  invaluable.  Col- 
lecting a  force  of  peasants,  he  set  them  to  work 
chopping  down  trees  and  with  these  trees  we 
built  a  bridge  sufficiently  strong  to  support 
the  weight  of  the  car.  Thus  we  came  into 
La  Clinge.  But  when  the  stolid  Dutchman 
in  charge  of  the  telegraph  office  saw  my 
despatches  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  dis- 
couragingly.  "It  is  not  possible  to  send  them 
from  here,"  he  explained.  "We  have  no 
instrument  here  but  have  to  telephone  every- 
thing to  Hulst,  eight  miles  away.  As  I  do  not 
understand  English  it  would  be  impossible  to 
telephone  your  despatches."  There  seemed 
nothing  for  it  but  to  walk  to  Hulst  and  back 
again,  for  the  Dutch  officials  refused  to  permit 
me  to  take  the  car,  which  was  a  military  one, 
across  the  frontier.  Just  at  that  moment  a 
young  Belgian  priest — Heaven  bless  him ! — 
who  had  overheard  the  discussion,  approached 
me.  "If  you  will  permit  me,  monsieur," 
said  he,  "I  will  be  glad  to  take  your  despatches 
through  to  Hulst  myself.  I  understand  their 
importance.  And  it  is  well  that  the  people  in 
England  and  in  America  should  learn  what  is 
happening  here  in  Belgium  and  how  bitterly 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP       211 

we  need  their  aid."  Those  despatches  were,  I 
believe,  the  only  ones  to  come  out  of  Antwerp 
during  the  bombardment.  The  fact  that  the 
newspaper  readers  in  London  and  New  York 
and  San  Francisco  were  enabled  to  learn 
within  a  few  hours  of  what  had  happened  in 
the  great  city  on  the  Scheldt  was  due,  not  to 
any  efforts  of  mine,  but  to  this  little  Belgian 
priest. 

But  when  we  got  back  to  Doel  the 
launch  was  gone.  The  boatman,  evidently 
not  relishing  another  taste  of  bombardment, 
had  decamped,  taking  his  launch  with  him. 
And  neither  offers  of  money  nor  threats  nor 
pleadings  could  obtain  me  another  one.  For 
a  time  it  looked  as  though  getting  back  to 
Antwerp  was  as  hopeless  as  getting  to  the 
moon.  Just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  giving 
up  in  despair,  Roos  appeared  with  a  gold-laced 
official  whom  he  introduced  as  the  chief 
quarantine  officer.  "He  is  going  to  let  you 
take  the  quarantine  launch,"  said  he.  I  don't 
know  just  what  arguments  Roos  had  brought 
to  bear,  and  I  was  careful  not  to  inquire,  but 
ten  minutes  later  I  was  sitting  in  lonely  state 
on  the  after  deck  of  a  trim  black  yacht  and  we 


were  streaking  it  up  the  river  at  twenty  miles 
an  hour.  As  I  knew  that  the  fall  of  the  city 
was  only  a  matter  of  hours,  I  refused  to  let 
Roos  accompany  me  and  take  the  chances  of 
being  made  a  prisoner  by  the  Germans,  but 
ordered  him  instead  to  take  the  car,  while 
there  was  yet  time,  and  make  his  way  to 
Ostend.  I  never  saw  him  again.  By  way  of 
precaution,  in  case  the  Germans  should  already 
be  in  possession  of  the  city,  I  had  taken  the 
two  American  flags  from  the  car  and  hoisted 
them  on  the  launch,  one  from  the  mainmast 
and  the  other  at  the  taffrail.  It  was  a  certain 
satisfaction  to  know  that  the  only  craft  that 
went  the  wrong  way  of  the  river  during  the 
bombardment  flew  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 
As  we  came  within  sight  of  the  quays,  the 
bombardment,  which  had  become  inter- 
mittent, suddenly  broke  out  afresh  and  I  was 
compelled  to  use  both  bribes  and  threats — the 
latter  backed  up  by  an  automatic — to  induce 
the  crew  of  the  launch  to  run  in  and  land  me 
at  the  quay.  An  hour  after  I  landed  the  city 
surrendered. 

The  withdrawal  of  the  garrison  from  Antwerp 
began    on    Thursday    and,    everything    con- 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP       213 

sidered,  was  carried  out  in  excellent  order,  the 
troops  being  recalled  in  units  from  the  outer 
line,  marched  through  the  city  and  across 
the  pontoon  bridge  which  spans  the  Scheldt 
and  thence  down  the  road  to  St.  Nicolas  to 
join  the  retreating  field  army.  What  was  im- 
plied in  the  actual  withdrawal  from  contact 
with  the  enemy  will  be  appreciated  when  I 
explain  the  conditions  which  existed.  In 
places  the  lines  were  not  two  hundred  yards 
apart  and  for  the  defenders  no  movement 
was  possible  during  the  daylight.  Many  of 
the  men  in  the  firing-line  had  been  on  duty 
for  nearly  a  hundred  hours  and  were  utterly 
worn  out  both  mentally  and  physically.  Such 
water  and  food  as  they  had  were  sent  to  them 
at  night,  for  any  attempt  to  cross  the  open 
spaces  in  the  daytime  the  Germans  met  with 
fierce  bursts  of  rifle  and  machine-gun  fire.  The 
evacuation  of  the  trenches  was,  therefore,  a 
most  difficult  and  dangerous  operation  and 
that  it  was  carried  out  with  so  comparatively 
small  loss  speaks  volumes  for  the  ability  of 
the  officers  to  whom  the  direction  of  the 
movement  was  intrusted,  as  does  the  successful 
accomplishment  of  the  retreat  from  Antwerp 


214       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

into  West  Flanders  along  a  road  which  was 
not  only  crowded  with  refugees  but  was 
constantly  threatened  by  the  enemy.  The 
.  chief  danger  was,  of  course,  that  the  Germans 
would  cross  the  river  at  Termonde  in  force 
and  thus  cut  off  the  line  of  retreat  toward 
the  coast,  forcing  the  whole  Belgian  army  and 
the  British  contingent  across  the  frontier  of 
Holland.  To  the  Belgian  cavalry  and  Cara- 
bineer cyclists  and  to  the  armored  cars  was 
given  the  task  of  averting  this  catastrophe, 
and  it  is  due  to  them  that  the  Germans  were 
held  back  for  a  sufficient  time  to  enable 
practically  the  whole  of  the  forces  evacuating 
Antwerp  to  escape.  That  a  large  proportion 
of  the  British  Naval  Reserve  Divisions  were 
pushed  across  the  frontier  and  interned  was 
not  due  to  any  fault  of  the  Belgians,  but,  in 
some  cases  at  least,  to  their  officers'  miscon- 
ception of  the  attitude  of  Holland.  Just  as  I 
was  leaving  Doel  on  my  second  trip  up  the 
river,  a  steamer  loaded  to  the  guards  with 
British  Naval  Reservists  swung  in  to  the  wharf, 
but,  to  my  surprise,  the  men  did  not  start  to 
disembark.  Upon  inquiring  of  some  one 
where  they  were  bound  for  I  was  told  that 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP       215 

they  were  going  to  continue  down  the  Scheldt 
to  Terneuzen.  Thereupon  I  ordered  the 
launch  to  run  alongside  and  clambered  aboard 
the  steamer. 

"I  understand,"  said  I,  addressing  a  group 
of  officers  who  seemed  to  be  as  much  in 
authority  as  any  one,  "that  you  are  keeping  on 
down  the  river  to  Terneuzen  ?  That  is  not 
true,  is  it?" 

They  looked  at  me  as  though  I  had  walked 
into  their  club  in  Pall  Mall  and  had  spoken 
to  them  without  an  introduction. 

"It  is,"  said  one  of  them  coldly.  "What 
about  it  ? " 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  said  I,  "except  that 
three  miles  down  this  river  you'll  be  in  Dutch 
territorial  waters,  whereupon  you  will  all  be 
arrested  and  held  as  prisoners  until  the  end 
of  the  war.  It's  really  none  of  my  business, 
I  know,  but  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  warn  you." 

"How  very  extraordinary,"  remarked  one 
of  them,  screwing  a  monocle  into  his  eye. 
"We're  not  at  war  with  Holland,  are  we? 
So  why  should  the  bally  Dutchmen  want  to 
trouble  us  ?" 

There  was  no  use  arguing  with  them,  so  I 


216       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

dropped  down  the  ladder  into  the  launch  and 
gave  the  signal  for  full  steam  ahead.  As  I 
looked  back  I  saw  the  steamer  cast  off  from 
the  wharf  and,  swinging  slowly  out  into  the 
river,  point  her  nose  down-stream  toward 
Holland. 

On  Friday  morning,  October  9,  General  de 
Guise,  the  military  Governor  of  Antwerp, 
ordered  the  destruction  of  the  pontoon  bridge 
across  the  Scheldt,  which  was  now  the  sole 
avenue  of  retreat  from  the  city.  The  mines 
which  were  exploded  beneath  it  did  more 
damage  to  the  buildings  along  the  water-front 
than  to  the  bridge,  however,  only  the  middle 
spans  of  which  were  destroyed.  When  the 
last  of  the  retreating  Belgians  came  pouring 
down  to  the  water-front  a  few  hours  later  to 
find  their  only  avenue  of  escape  gone,  for  a 
time  scenes  of  the  wildest  confusion  ensued, 
the  men  frantically  crowding  aboard  such 
vessels  as  remained  at  the  wharfs  or  opening 
fire  on  those  which  were  already  in  mid- 
stream and  refused  to  return  in  answer  to  their 
summons.  I  wish  to  emphasize  the  fact,  how- 
ever, that  these  were  but  isolated  incidents; 
that  these  men  were  exhausted  in  mind  and 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP        217 

body  from  many  days  of  fighting  against  hope- 
less odds;  and  that,  as  a  whole,  the  Belgian 
troops  bore  themselves,  in  this  desperate  and 
trying  situation,  with  a  courage  and  coolness 
deserving  of  the  highest  admiration.  I  have 
heard  it  said  in  England  that  the  British  Naval 
Division  was  sent  to  Antwerp  "to  stiffen  the 
Belgians."  That  may  have  been  the  intention, 
but  the  Belgians  needed  no  stiffening.  They 
did  everything  that  any  other  troops  could 
have  done  under  the  same  circumstances — and 
more.  Nor  did  the  men  of  the  Naval 
Division,  as  has  been  frequently  asserted  in 
England,  cover  the  Belgian  retreat.  The  last 
troops  to  leave  the  trenches  were  Belgians, 
the  last  shots  were  fired  by  Belgians,  and  the 
Belgians  were  the  last  to  cross  the  river. 

At  noon  on  Friday,  General  de  Guise  and  his 
staff  having  taken  refuge  in  Fort  St.  Philippe, 
a  few  miles  below  Antwerp  on  the  Scheldt, 
the  officer  in  command  of  the  last  line  of  defence 
sent  word  to  the  burgomaster  that  his  troops 
could  hold  out  but  a  short  time  longer  and 
suggested  that  the  time  had  arrived  for  him  to 
go  out  to  the  German  lines  under  a  flag  of  truce 


2i 8        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

and  secure  the  best  terms  possible  for  the  city. 
As  the  burgomaster,  M.  de  Vos,  accompanied 
by  Deputy  Louis  Franck,  Communal  Coun- 
cillor Ryckmans,  and  the  Spanish  Consul  (it 
was  expected  that  the  American  Consul- 
General  would  be  one  of  the  parlementams, 
but  it  was  learned  that  he  had  left  the  day 
before  for  Ghent)  went  out  of  the  city  by  one 
gate,  half  a  dozen  motor-cars  filled  with 
German  soldiers  entered  through  the  Porte 
de  Malines,  sped  down  the  broad,  tree-shaded 
boulevards  which  lead  to  the  centre  of  the 
city,  and  drew  up  before  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
In  answer  to  the  summons  of  a  young  officer 
in  a  voluminous  gray  cloak  the  door  was 
cautiously  opened  by  a  servant  in  the  blue- 
and-silver  livery  of  the  municipality. 

"I  have  a  message  to  deliver  to  the  members 
of  the  Communal  Council,"  said  the  officer 
politely. 

"The  councillors  are  at  dinner  and  cannot 
be  disturbed,"  was  the  firm  reply.  "But  if 
monsieur  desires  he  can  sit  down  and  wait 
for  them."  So  the  young  officer  patiently 
seated  himself  on  a  wooden  bench  while  his 
men  ranged  themselves  along  one  side  of  the 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP       219 

hall.  After  a  delay  of  perhaps  twenty  minutes 
the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened  and  a 
councillor  appeared,  wiping  his  mustache. 

"I  understand  that  you  have  a  message  for 
the  Council.  Well,  what  is  it?"  he  demanded 
pompously. 

The  young  officer  clicked  his  heels  together 
and  bowed  from  the  waist. 

"The  message  I  am  instructed  to  give  yous 
sir,"  he  said  politely,  "is  that  Antwerp  is  now 
a  German  city.  You  are  requested  by  the 
general  commanding  his  Imperial  Majesty's 
forces  so  to  inform  your  townspeople  and  to 
assure  them  that  they  will  not  be  molested  so 
long  as  they  display  no  hostility  towards  our 
troops." 

While  this  dramatic  little  scene  was  being 
enacted  in  the  historic  setting  of  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  the  burgomaster,  unaware  that  the 
enemy  was  already  within  the  city  gates,  was 
conferring  with  the  German  commander, 
who  informed  him  that  if  the  outlying  forts 
were  immediately  surrendered  no  money  in- 
demnity would  be  demanded  from  the  city, 
though  all  merchandise  found  in  its  ware- 
houses would  be  confiscated. 


220       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

The  first  troops  to  enter  were  a  few  score 
cyclists,  who  advanced  cautiously  from  street 
to  street  and  from  square  to  square  until  they 
formed  a  network  of  scouts  extending  over 
the  entire  city.  After  them,  at  the  quickstep, 
came  a  brigade  of  infantry  and  hard  on  the 
heels  of  the  infantry  clattered  half  a  dozen 
batteries  of  horse-artillery.  These  passed 
through  the  city  to  the  water-front  at  a  spank- 
ing trot,  unlimbered  on  the  quays,  and  opened 
fire  with  shrapnel  on  the  retreating  Belgians, 
who  had  already  reached  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river.  Meanwhile  a  company  of  infantry 
started  at  the  double  across  the  pontoon 
bridge,  evidently  unaware  that  its  middle  spans 
had  been  destroyed.  Without  an  instant's 
hesitation  two  soldiers  threw  ofF  their  knap- 
sacks, plunged  into  the  river,  swam  across  the 
gap,  clambered  up  onto  the  other  portion  of 
the  bridge  and,  in  spite  of  a  heavy  fire  from 
,  the  fort  at  the  Tete  de  Flandre,  dashed  forward 
to  reconnoitre.  That  is  the  sort  of  deed  that 
wins  the  Iron  Cross.  Within  little  more  than 
an  hour  after  reaching  the  water-front  the 
Germans  had  brought  up  their  engineers  and 
pontoon  wagons,  the  bridge  had  been  repaired, 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP       221 

the  fire  from  Fort  St.  Anne  had  been  silenced, 
and  their  troops  were  pouring  across  the  river 
in  a  steady  stream  in  pursuit  of  the  Belgians. 
The  grumble  of  field-guns,  which  continued 
throughout  the  night,  told  us  that  they  had 
overtaken  the  Belgian  rear-guard. 

Though  the  bombardment  ended  early  on 
Friday  afternoon,  Friday  night  was  by  no 
means  lacking  in  horrors,  for  early  in  the 
evening  fires,  which  owed  their  origin  to  shells, 
broke  out  in  a  dozen  parts  of  the  city.  The 
most  serious  one  by  far  was  in  the  narrow, 
winding  thoroughfare  known  as  the  Marche 
aux  Souliers,  which  runs  from  the  Place  Verte 
to  the  Place  de  Meir.  By  eight  o'clock  the 
entire  western  side  of  this  street  was  a  sheet 
of  flame.  The  only  spectators  were  groups  of 
German  soldiers,  who  watched  the  threatened 
destruction  of  the  city  with  complete  indiffer- 
ence, and  several  companies  of  firemen  who 
had  turned  out,  I  suppose,  from  force  of 
training,  but  who  stood  helplessly  beside  their 
empty  hose  lines,  for  there  was  no  water.  I 
firmly  believe  that  the  saving  of  a  large  part 
of  Antwerp,  including  the  cathedral,  was  due 
to  an  American  resident,  Mr.  Charles  WhithofF, 


222        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

who,  recognizing  the  extreme  peril  in  which 
the  city  stood,  hurried  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville 
and  suggested  to  the  German  military  au- 
thorities that  they  should  prevent  the  spread 
of  flames  by  dynamiting  the  adjacent  buildings. 
Acting  promptly  on  this  suggestion,  a  telephone 
message  was  sent  to  Brussels,  and  four  hours 
later  several  automobiles  loaded  with  hand- 
grenades  came  tearing  into  Antwerp.  A  squad 
of  soldiers  was  placed  under  Mr.  WhithorFs 
orders  and,  following  his  directions,  they  blew 
up  a  cordon  of  buildings  and  effectually  isolated 
the  flames.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  figure 
of  this  young  American,  in  bedroom  slippers 
and  smoking-jacket,  coolly  instructing  German 
soldiers  in  the  most  approved  methods  of  fire 
fighting. 

Nearly  a  week  before  the  surrender  of  the 
city,  the  municipal  water-works,  near  Lierre, 
had  been  destroyed  by  shells  from  the  German 
siege-guns,  so  that  when  the  Germans  entered 
the  city  the  sanitary  conditions  had  become 
intolerable  and  an  epidemic  was  impending. 
So  scarce  did  water  become  during  the  last 
few  days  of  the  siege  that  when,  on  the  evening 
of  the  surrender,  I  succeeded  in  obtaining 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP       225 

a  bottle  of  Apollinaris  I  debated  with  myself 
whether  I  should  use  it  for  washing  or  drinking. 
I  finally  compromised  by  drinking  part  of  it 
and  washing  in  the  rest.  The  Germans  were 
by  no  means  blind  to  the  peril  of  an  epidemic, 
and,  before  they  had  been  three  hours  in 
occupation  of  the  city  their  medical  corps  was 
at  work  cleaning  and  disinfecting.  Every 
contingency,  in  fact,  seemed  to  have  been 
anticipated  and  provided  for.  Every  phase 
of  the  occupation  was  characterized  by  the 
German  passion  for  method  and  order.  The 
machinery  of  the  municipal  health  department 
was  promptly  set  in  motion.  The  police  were 
ordered  to  take  up  their  duties  as  though  no 
change  in  government  had  occurred.  The 
train  service  to  Brussels,  Holland,  and  Ger- 
many was  restored.  Stamps  surcharged  "Fur 
Belgien"  were  put  on  sale  at  the  post-office. 
The  electric-lighting  system  was  repaired  and 
on  Saturday  night,  for  the  first  time  since  the 
Zeppelin's  memorable  visit  the  latter  part  of 
August,  Antwerp  was  again  ablaze  with  light. 
When,  immediately  after  the  occupation, 
I  hurried  to  the  American  Consulate  with  the 
package  of  keys  which  I  had  brought  from 


224        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

Ghent,  I  was  somewhat  surprised,  to  put  it 
mildly,  to  find  the  Consulate  closed  and  to 
learn  from  the  concierge,  who,  with  his  wife, 
had  remained  in  the  building  throughout  the 
bombardment,  that  Consul-General  Diederich 
and  his  entire  staff  had  left  the  city  on  Thursday 
morning.  I  was  particularly  surprised  because 
I  knew  that,  upon  the  departure  of  the  British 
Consul-General,  Sir  Cecil  Hertslet,  some  days 
before,  the  enormous  British  interests  in 
Antwerp  had  been  confided  to  American 
protection.  The  concierge,  who  knew  me  and 
seemed  decidedly  relieved  to  see  me,  made 
no  objection  to  opening  the  Consulate  and 
letting  me  in.  While  deliberating  as  to  the 
best  method  of  transmitting  the  keys  which 
had  been  intrusted  to  me  to  the  German 
military  Governor  without  informing  him  of 
the  embarrassing  fact  that  the  American  and 
British  interests  in  the  city  were  without 
official  representation,  those  Americans  and 
British  who  had  remained  in  the  city  during 
the  bombardment  began  to  drop  in.  Some  of 
them  were  frightened  and  all  of  them  were 
plainly  worried,  the  women  in  particular, 
among  whom  were  several  British  Red  Cross 


The  retreat  from  Antwerp.     The  Belgian  army  passing 
through  Lokoren. 


The  rear-guard  of  the  retreating  Antwerp  garrison. 


•a  -a    2 


; 


THE   FALL  OF  ANTWERP        225 

nurses,  seeming  fearful  that  the  soldiers  might 
get  out  of  hand.  As  there  was  no  one  else 
to  look  after  these  people,  and  as  I  had  formerly 
been  in  the  consular  service  myself,  and  as 
they  said  quite  frankly  that  they  would  feel 
relieved  if  I  took  charge  of  things,  I  decided 
to  "sit  on  the  lid,"  as  it  were,  until  the  Consul- 
General's  return.  In  assuming  charge  of 
British  and  American  affairs  in  Antwerp,  at 
the  request  and  with  the  approval  of  what  re- 
mained of  the  Anglo-American  colony  in  that 
city,  I  am  quite  aware  that  I  acted  in  a  manner 
calculated  to  scandalize  those  gentlemen  who 
have  been  steeped  in  the  ethics  of  diplomacy. 
As  one  youth  attached  to  the  American 
Embassy  in  London  remarked,  it  was  "the 
damnedest  piece  of  impertinence"  of  which 
he  had  ever  heard.  But  he  is  quite  a  young 
gentleman,  and  has  doubtless  had  more  ex- 
perience in  ballrooms  than  in  bombarded  cities. 
I  immediately  wrote  a  brief  note  to  the 
German  commander  transmitting  the  keys 
and  informing  him  that,  in  the  absence  of  the 
American  Consul-General  I  had  assumed 
charge  of  American  and  British  interests  in 
Antwerp,  and  expected  the  fullest  protection 


226       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

for  them,  to  which  I  received  a  prompt  and 
courteous  reply  assuring  me  that  foreigners 
would  not  be  molested  in  any  way.  In  the 
absence  of  the  consular  staff,  Thompson 
volunteered  to  act  as  messenger  and  deliver 
my  message  to  the  German  commander. 
While  on  his  way  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  which 
was  being  used  as  staff  headquarters,  a  German 
infantry  regiment  passed  him  in  a  narrow  street. 
Because  he  failed  to  remove  his  hat  to  the 
colors  a  German  officer  struck  him  twice 
with  the  flat  of  his  sword,  only  desisting  when 
Thompson  pulled  a  silk  American  flag  from  his 
pocket.  Upon  learning  of  this  occurrence  I 
vigorously  protested  to  the  military  authorities, 
who  offered  profuse  apologies  for  the  incident 
and  assured  me  that  the  officer  would  be 
punished  if  Thompson  could  identify  him. 
Consul-General  Diederich  returned  to  Ant- 
werp on  Monday  and  I  left  the  same  day  for 
the  nearest  telegraph  station  in  Holland. 

The  whole  proceeding  was  irregular  and 
unauthorized,  of  course,  but  for  that  matter 
so  was  the  German  invasion  of  Belgium.  In 
any  event,  it  seemed  the  thing  to  do  and  I 
did  it,  and,  under  the  same  circumstances,  I 
should  do  precisely  the  same  thing  over  again. 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP        227 

Though  a  very  large  force  of  German  troops 
passed  through  Antwerp  during  Friday  night 
in  pursuit  of  the  retreating  Belgians,  the 
triumphal  entry  of  the  victors  did  not  be- 
gin until  Saturday  afternoon,  when  sixty 
thousand  men  passed  in  review  before  the 
military  Governor,  Admiral  von  Schroeder, 
and  General  von  Beseler,  who,  surrounded  by 
a  glittering  staff,  sat  their  horses  in  front  of 
the  royal  palace.  So  far  as  onlookers  were 
concerned,  the  Germans  might  as  well  have 
marched  through  the  streets  of  ruined  Babylon. 
Thompson  and  I,  standing  in  the  windows  of 
the  American  Consulate,  were  the  only 
spectators  in  the  entire  length  of  the  mile- 
long  Place  de  Meir — which  is  the  Broadway 
of  Antwerp — of  the  great  military  pageant. 
The  streets  were  absolutely  deserted;  every 
building  was  dark,  every  window  shuttered; 
in  a  thoroughfare  which  had  blossomed  with 
bunting  a  few  days  before,  not  a  flag  was  to  be 
seen.  I  think  that  even  the  Germans  were  a 
little  awed  by  the  deathly  silence  that  greeted 
them.  As  Thompson  dryly  remarked,  "It 
reminds  me  of  a  circus  that's  come  to  town 
the  day  before  it's  expected." 


228        FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

For    five    hours    that    mighty    host    poured 
through  the  canyons  of  brick  and  stone: 

"Above  the  bugles'  din, 
Sweating  beneath  their  haversacks, 
With  rifles  bristling  on  their  backs. 

The  dusty  men  trooped  in." 

Company  after  company,  regiment  after 
regiment,  brigade  after  brigade  swept  by  until 
our  eyes  grew  weary  with  watching  the  ranks 
of  gray  under  the  slanting  lines  of  steel.  As 
they  marched  they  sang,  the  high  buildings 
along  the  Place  de  Meir  and  the  Avenue  de 
Keyser  echoing  to  their  voices  thundering  out 
"Die  Wacht  am  Rhein,"  "Deutschland, 
Deutschland  uber  Alles"  and  "  Ein  Feste  Burg 
1st  Unser  Gott."  Though  the  singing  was 
mechanical,  like  the  faces  of  the  men  who  sang, 
the  mighty  volume  of  sound,  punctuated  at 
regular  intervals  by  the  shrill  music  of  the  fifes 
and  the  rattle  of  the  drums,  and  accompanied 
always  by  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  iron-shod 
boots,  was  one  of  the  most  impressive  things 
that  I  have  ever  heard.  Each  regiment  was 
headed  by  its  field  music  and  colors,  and  when 
darkness  fell  and  the  street  lights  were  turned 
on,  the  shriek  of  the  fifes  and  the  clamor  of 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP        229 

the  drums  and  the  rhythmic  tramp  of  march- 
ing feet  reminded  me  of  a  torchlight  political 
parade  at  home. 

At  the  head  of  the  column  rode  a  squadron 
of  gendarmes — the  policemen  of  the  army — 
gorgeous  in  uniforms  of  bottle-green  and  silver 
and  mounted  on  sleek  and  shining  horses. 
After  them  came  the  infantry:  solid  columns 
of  gray-clad  figures  with  the  silhouettes  of 
the  mounted  officers  rising  at  intervals  above 
the  forest  of  spike-crowned  helmets.  After  the 
infantry  came  the  field  artillery,  the  big  guns 
rattling  and  rumbling  over  the  cobblestones, 
the  cannoneers  sitting  with  folded  arms  and 
heels  drawn  in,  and  wooden  faces,  like  servants 
on  the  box  of  a  carriage.  These  were  the  same 
guns  that  had  been  in  almost  constant  action 
for  the  preceding  fortnight  and  that  for  forty 
hours  had  poured  death  and  destruction  into 
the  city,  yet  both  men  and  horses  were  in  the 
very  pink  of  condition,  as  keen  as  razors,  and 
as  hard  as  nails;  the  blankets,  the  buckets, 
the  knapsacks,  the  intrenching  tools  were  all 
strapped  in  their  appointed  places,  and  the 
brown  leather  harness  was  polished  like  a  lady's 
tan  shoes.  After  the  field-batteries  came  the 


230       FIGHTING  IN  FLANDERS 

horse-artillery  and  after  the  horse-artillery  the 
pompoms — each  drawn  by  a  pair  of  sturdy 
draught-horses  driven  with  web  reins  by  a 
soldier  sitting  on  the  limber — and  after  the 
pompoms  an  interminable  line  of  machine 
guns,  until  one  wondered  where  Krupp's  found 
the  time  and  the  steel  to  make  them  all.  Then, 
heralded  by  a  blare  of  trumpets  and  a  crash 
of  kettle-drums,  came  the  cavalry;  Cuirassiers 
with  their  steel  helmets  and  breastplates 
covered  with  gray  linen,  Hussars  in  befrogged 
gray  jackets  and  fur  busbies,  also  linen-covered, 
and  finally  the  Uhlans,  riding  amid  a  forest  of 
lances  under  a  cloud  of  fluttering  pennons.  But 
this  was  not  all,  nor  nearly  all,  for  after  the 
Uhlans  came  the  sailors  of  the  Naval  Division, 
brown-faced,  bewhiskered  fellows  with  their 
round,  flat  caps  tilted  rakishly  and  the  roll  of  the 
sea  in  their  gait;  then  the  Bavarians  in  dark 
blue,  the  Saxons  in  light  blue,  and  the  Austrians 
— the  same  who  had  handled  the  big  guns  so 
effectively — in  uniforms  of  a  beautiful  silver 
gray.  Accompanying  one  of  the  Bavarian 
regiments  was  a  victoria  drawn  by  a  fat  white 
horse,  with  two  soldiers  on  the  box.  Horse 
and  carriage  were  decorated  with  flowers  as 


THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP        231 

though  for  a  floral  parade  at  Nice;  even  the 
soldiers  had  flowers  pinned  to  their  caps  and 
nosegays  stuck  in  their  tunics.  The  carriage 
was  evidently  a  sort  of  triumphal  chariot 
dedicated  to  the  celebration  of  the  victory, 
for  it  was  loaded  with  hampers  of  champagne 
and  violins ! 

The  army  which  captured  Antwerp  was, 
first,  last  and  all  the  time,  a  fighting  army. 
There  was  not  a  Landsturm  or  a  Landwehr 
regiment  in  it.  The  men  were  as  pink- 
cheeked  as  athletes;  they  marched  with  the 
buoyancy  of  men  in  perfect  health.  And  yet 
the  human  element  was  lacking;  there  was 
none  of  the  pomp  and  panoply  commonly 
associated  with  war;  these  men  in  gray  were 
merely  wheels  and  cogs  and  bolts  and  screws 
in  a  great  machine — the  word  which  has  been 
used  so  often  of  the  German  army,  yet  must 
be  repeated,  because  there  is  no  other — whose 
only  purpose  is  death.  As  that  great  fighting 
machine  swung  past,  remorseless  as  a  trip- 
hammer, efficient  as  a  steam  roller,  I  could 
not  but  marvel  how  the  gallant,  chivalrous,  and 
heroic  but  ill-prepared  little  army  of  Belgium, 
had  held  it  back  so  long. 


FOUR  TIMELY  BOOKS  OF 
INTERNATIONAL  IMPORTANCE 

I  ACCUSE  (/'ACCUSE  /)  By  -a  German.     A   Scathing 
Arraignment  of  the  German  War  Policy. 

At  this  vital  time  in  the  nation's  history  every  patriotic  American 
should  read  and  reread  this  wonderful  book  and  learn  the  absurdity 
»  of  the  German  excuse  that  they  wanted  a  "Place  in  the  Sun." 

Learn  how  the  German  masses  were  deluded  with  the  idea  that 
they  were  making  a  defensive  war  to  protect  the  Fatherland. 

Let  the  author  of  this  illuminating  book  again  show  the  sacrilege 
of  claiming  a  Christian  God  as  a  Teutonic  ally  and  riddle  once  more 
the  divine  right  of  kings. 

PAN-GERMANISM.     By  Roland  G.  Usher. 

The  clear,  graphic  style  gives  it  a  popular  appeal  that  sets  it  miles 
at>art  from  the  ordinary  treatise,  and  for  the  reader  who  wishes  to 
g5t  a  rapid  focus  on  the  world  events  of  the  present,  perhaps  no 
book  written  will  be  more  interesting. 

It  is  the  only  existing  forecast  of  exactly  the  present  development 
o:  events  in  Europe.  It  is,  besides,  a  brisk,  clear,  almost  primer- 
like  reduction  of  the  complex  history  of  Europe  during  the  last  forty 
years  to  a  simple,  connected  story  clear  enough  to  the  most  casual 
reader. 

THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THE  FUTURE.  By  Roland 
G.  Usher. 

A  glance  into  America's  future  by  the  man  who,  in  his  book'PAN- 
GERMANISM,  foretold  with  such  amazing  accuracy  the  coming  of 
tae  present  European  events.  An  exceedingly  live  and  timely  book 
that  is  bound  to  be  read  and  discussed  widely  because  it  strikes  to 
tae  heart  of  American  problems,  and  more  especially  because  it  hits 
right  and  left  at  ideas  that  have  become  deep-seated  convictions  in 
many  American  minds. 

.THE  EVIDENCE  IN  THE  CASE.      By  James  M. 
Beck,  LL.  D. ,  Formerly  Assistant  Attorney-Genera/ 
of  the  United  States,  Author  of  the  "War  and  Hu- 
manity."   With  an  Introduction  by  the  Hon.  Joseph 
H.  Choate^Late  U.  S.  Ambassador  to  Great  Britain. ' 
[    No  work  on  the  War  has  made  a  deeper  impression  throughout 
the  world  than  "The  Evidence  in  the  Case,"  a  calm,  dispassionate, 
but  forceful  discussion  of  the  moral  responsibility  for  the  present 
war  as  disclosed  by  the  diplomatic  papers.  Arnold  Bennett  says  that 
it  "is  certainly  by  far  the  most  convincing  indictment  of  Germany  in 
existence." 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

THE  INSIDE  OF  THE  CUP.    Illustrated  by  Howard  Giles. 

The  Reverend  John  Hodder  is  called  to  a  fashionable  church  in 
a  middle- western  city.  He  knows  little  of  modern  problems  aid  in 
his  theology  is  as  orthodox  as  the  rich  men  who  control  his  cturch 
could  desire.  But  the  facts  of  modern  life  are  thrust  upon  him;  an 
awakening  follows  and  in  the  end  he  works  out  a  solution. 
A  FAR  COUNTRY.  Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer.  , 

This  novel  is  concerned  with  big  problems  of  the  day.    As  The 
Inside  of  the  Cup  gets  down  to  the  essentials  in  its  discussion  of  re- 
ligion, so  A  Far  Country  deals  in  a  story  that  is  intense  and  dra- 
matic, with  other  vital  issues  confronting  the  twentieth  century. 
A  MODERN  CHRONICLE.    Illustrated  by  J.  H.  Gardner  Soper. 

This,  Mr.   Churchill's  first  great  presentation  of  the  Eternal 
Feminine,  is  throughout  a  profound  study  of  a  fascinating  young 
American  woman.    It  is  frankly  a  modern  love  story. 
MR.  CREWE'S  CAREER.     Illus.  by  A.  I.  Keller  and  Kinneys. 

A  new  England  state  is  under  the  political  domination  of  a  -ail- 
way  and  Mr.  Crewe,  a  millionaire,  seizes  a  moment  when  the  ctuse 
of  the  people  is  being  espoused  by  an  ardent  young  attorney,  to  fur- 
ther his  own  interest  in  a  political  way.  The  daughter  of  the  rail- 
way president  plays  no  small  part  in  the  situation. 
THE  CROSSING.  Illustrated  by  S.  Adamson  and  L.  Baylis. 

Describing  the  battle  of  Fort  Moultrie,  the  blazing  of  the  Ke«- 
tucky  wilderness,  the  expedition  of  Clark  and  his  handful  of  follow- 
ers in  Illinois,  the  beginning  of    civilization  along  the  Ohio  ind 
Mississippi,  and  the  treasonable  schemes  against  Washington. 
CONISTON.    Illustrated  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn. 

A  deft  blending  of  love  and  ppli tics.    A  New  Englander  is  the 
hero,  a  crude  man  who  rose  to  political  prominence  by  his  own  pow. 
ers,  and  then  surrendered  all  for  the  love  of  a  woman. 
THE  CELEBRITY.    An  episode. 

1        An  inimitable  bit  of  comedy  describing  an  interchange  of  per- 
sonalities between  a  celebrated  author  and  a  bicycle  salesman.    It 
is  the  purest,  keenest  fun — and  is  American  to  the  core. 
THE  CRISIS.    Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  Photo-Play. 

A  book  that  presents  the  great  crisis  in  our  national  life  with 
splendid  power  and  with  a  sympathy,  a  sincerity,  and  a  patriotism 
that  are  inspiring. 
RICHARD  CARVEL.    Illustrated  by  Malcolm  Frazer. 

An  historical  novel  which  gives  a  real  and  vivid  picture  of  Co- 
lonial times,  and  is  good,  clean,  spirited  reading  in  all  its  phases  and 
interesting  throughout. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      PUBLISHERS,     NEW  YORK 


JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES  OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

May  be  hid  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Cresset  and  Donlap's  list        • 


THE  TRAIL   OF  THE    LONESOME  PINE./ 
lUustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERD  OF  KINGDOM  COME 
lUustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A'KNIGHT  OF  THE    CUMBERLAND. 
lUustrated   by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  f  eudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris- 
tened "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "  HeU  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

Ask  for  complete  fret  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

<GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list 

LADDIE.  ~ 

Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  thft 
scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The  story  is  told 
by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of 
a  large  family,  but  it  is  concerned  not  so 
much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family. 
Chief  among  them  is  that  of  Laddie,  the 
older  brother  whom  Little  Sister  adores, 
and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has 
come  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  and  about 
whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
There  is  a  wedding  midway  in  the  book 
and  a  double  wedding  at  the  close. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  is  o.  man  of  the  woods  and 
fields,  who  draws  his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure 
of  this  man  it  would  be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his 
"Medicine  Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has  come  to  him — there  begins 
a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES,  Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  to 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his 
love-story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  an<J 
tmdness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
Sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  frcnj 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  couragb, 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 
Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  In  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  or 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,      NEW  YORK 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
Colored  frontispiece  by  W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

Most  of  the  action  of  this  story  takes  place  near  the  turbulent 
Mexican  border  of  the  present  day.  A  New  York  society  girl  buys 
a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  warfare.  Her  loyal 
cowboys  defend  her  property  from  bandits,  and  her  superintendent 
rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  them.  A  surprising  climax 
brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  close. 

DESERT  GOLD 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

Another  fascinating  story  of  the  Mexican  border.  Two  men, 
lost  in  the  desert,  discover  gold  when,  overcome  by  weakness,  they 
can  go  no  farther.  The  rest  of  the  story  describes  the  recent  uprising 
along  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  finding  of  the  gold  which  the 
two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine. 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

A  picturesq ue  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when 
Mormon  authority  ruled.  In  the  persecution  of  Jane  Withersteen,  a 
rich  ranch  owner,  we  are  permitted  to  see  the  methods  employed  by 
the  invisible  hand  of  the  Mormon  Church  to  break  her  will. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 
Illustrated  with  photograph  reproductions. 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo 
Jones,  known  as  the  preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the 
Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hunt  in  "that  wonderful  country  of  yellow 
crags,  deep  canons  and  giant  pines."  It  is  a  fascinating  story. 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

Jacket  in  color.     Frontispiece. 

This  big  human  drama  is  played  in  the  Painted  Desert.    A 
lovely  girl,  who  has  been  reared  among  Mormons,  learns  to  love  a 
young  New  Englander.    The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands 
that  the  girl  shall  become  the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons- 
Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  sensational,  big  selling  story. 

BETTY  ZANE 
Illustrated  by  Louis  F.  Grant. 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beauti- 
ful young  sister  of  old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 
Life  along  the  frontier,  attacks  by  Indians,  Betty's  heroic  defense 
of  the  beleaguered  garrison  at  Wheeling,  the  burning  of  the  Fort, 
and  Betty's  final  race  for  life,make  up  this  never-to-be-forgotten  story. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing 
experiences.  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac- 
quainted with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
Barleycorn.  It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
conveys  an  unforgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.    Frontispiece  by  George  Harper. 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex-prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 
BURNING  DAYLIGHT.  Four  illustrations. 

The  story  ot  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  as^a  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  band  and  then — but  read  the  story! 

A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.  Fischer  and  C.  W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy. 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.    Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 
A  book  of  dog  adventures  as   exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 
could  be.     Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictur- 
esque color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes.  J 

THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.    A 
novel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight. 
WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

"White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  the 
frozen  north ;  he  gradually  comes  under  the  spell  of  man's  com- 
panionship, and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave. 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS',    NEW   YORK 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM  MacLEOD   RAINE 

HANDSOMELY  BOUND  IN  CLOTH.     ILLUSTRATED. 
<       May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list 

MAVERICKS. 

A  tale  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "rustler,"  whose  dep- 
redations are  so  keenly  resented  by  the  early  settlers  of  the  range, 
abounds.  One  of  the  sweetest  love  stories  ever  told.  • 

A  TEXAS  RANGER. 

How  a  member  of  the  most  dauntless  border  police  force  carried 
law  into  the  mesquit,  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man  after  a  series 
of  thrilling  adventures,  followed  a  fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then 
passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness. 

WYOMING. 

In  this  vivid  story  of  the  outdoor  West  the  author  has  captured 
the  breezy  charm  of  "cattleland,"  and  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of 
the  frontier  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  poli- 
tics and  mining  industries  are  the  religion  of  the  country.  The 
political  contest,  the  love  scene,  and  the  fine  character  drawing  give 
this  story  great  strength  and  charm.  » 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR, 

Every  chapter  teems  with  'wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  re- 
plete  with  the  dashing  spirit  of  the  border,  told  with  dramatic  daeij 
and  absorbing  fascination  of  style  and  plot. 

CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT. 

A  story  of  Arizona;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws;  of 
a  bitter  feud  between  cattle-men  and  sheep-herders.  The  heroine 
is  a  most  unusual  woman  and  her  love  story  reaches  a  culmination 
that  is  fittingly  characteristic  of  the  great  free  West. 

BRAND  BLOTTERS. 

A  rtory  of  the  Cattle  Range.  This  story  brings  out  the  turbid 
life  of  the  frontier,  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor,  with  a  charm- 
ing love  interest  running  through  its  320  pages. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,      NEW  YORK 


B.  M.  Bower's  Novels 

Thrilling  Western  Romances 

Large  12  mos.  Handsomely  bound  in  cloth.     Illustrated 

CHIP,  OF  THE  FLYING  U 

A  breezy  wholesome  tale,  wherein  the  love  affairs  of  Chip  and 
Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told.  Chip's 
jealousy  of  Dr.  Cecil  Grantham,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  big.  blue 
eyed  young  woman  is  very  amusing.  A  clever,  realistic  story  of 
the  American  Cow-puncher. 

THE  HAPPY  FAMJLY 

A  lively^and  amusing  story,  dealing  with  the  adventures  of 
eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys.    Foremost  amongst 
them,  we  find  Ananias  Green,  known  as  Andy,  whose  imaginative 
powers  cause  many  lively  and  exciting  adventures. 
HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

A  realistic  story  of  the  plains,  describing  a  gay  party  of  Eas- 
terners who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  the  rough  homeli- 
ness of  a  Montana  ranch-house.  The  merry-hearted  cowboys,  the 
fascinating  Beatrice,  and  the  effusive  Sir  Redmond,  become  living, 
breathing  personalities.  /' 

THE  RANGE  DWELLERS 

Here  are  everyday,  genuine  cowboys,  just  as  they  really  exist. 
Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  between  two  families,  and  a  Roraeo 
and  Juliet  courtship  make  this  a  bright,  jolly,  [entertaining  story, 
without  a  dull  page.  -,',,.,,  * 

THE   LURE  OF  DIM  TRAILS 

A  vivid  portrayal  of  the  experience  of  an  Eastern  author, 
among  the  cowboys  of  the  West,  in  search  of  "local  color"  for  a 
new  novel.  "Bud"  Thurston  learns  many  a  lesson  while  following 
"the  lure  of  the  dim  trails"  but  the  hardest,  and  probably  the  most 
welcome,  is  that  of  love.  ^lAa^ 
THE  LONESOME  TRAIL  ^ 

)  "Weary"  Davidson  leaves  the  ranch  for  Portland,  where  con- 
ventional city  life  palls  on  him.  A  little  branch  of  sage  brush, 
pungent  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  prairie,  and  the  recollection  of 
a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  soon  compel  his  retum._A  wholesome 
love  story,  ,  .  •  / 

THE  LONG  SHADOW  v 

A  vigorous  Western  story,"  sparkling  wit"h|;the  free,  outdoor, 
life  of  a  mountain  ranch.  Its  scenes  shift  rapidly  and  its  actors  play 
the  game  of  life  fearlessly  and  like  men.  It  is  a  fine  love  story  from 
start  to  finish. 

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